December 21, 2007

7:52 p.m.

Normandy

When I was in high school I participated heavily, and with much enthusiasm, in all the choral and dramatic activities I could cram into my schedule. I had a chum named Normandy, with whom I wasn't exactly an after-school friend, but who was, like me, a member of the Madrigal choir and an annual participant in the school musical. She had the most gorgeous alto voice I'd ever heard, or possibly have heard since. She struck me as rather straight-laced and hard to get to know, so we never hung out, outside of rehearsals or class. (It turns out that my impression of her was quite wrong, but I didn't find that out until recently.)

I can't remember how, now, but last winter we got back in touch -- this, after over 30 years. Subsequently I visited her in New Hampshire one stormy afternoon, and then during the summer we met at Old Sturbridge Village and she brought her six-year-old lesbian daughter, Tommy, and we had a good old time.

(Well, we're not certain yet that Tommy is a dyke, but she prefers boy clothes and eschews girly activities and toys.)

Normandy got divorced last year and my impression of her husband is of someone depressed and unable to take responsibility for his kid. There is no child support coming (don't ask me why she doesn't do something legal about this, because she could) and he goes through periods of complete silence and absence which young Tommy can't understand. Anyway, Normandy has struggled valiantly to create a loving and predictable home life for the lesbette, while hating her teaching job and wracking her brain to figure out how to shift into a job and community she likes better without losing her home and sanity, or compromising Tommy's future.

When Normandy and I first spoke on the phone, the first thing that struck me was that her voice sounded like it had been through a seive and then dragged down a driveway.

She explained that she hadn't gotten into the music college she wanted -- in fact had been treated rather badly at the audition -- and that informed her decision to study somewhere else and go into teaching instead of performance. As a result of talking over loud middle school kids for many years, she had ruined her singing voice. She was still okay on the low notes, she said, but had virtually no upper register any more.

When we eventually got together, I brought a cassette tape I'd dug up of the last musical we did in high school, Carousel. We both had lead parts; I had the coveted Julie Jordan part (boring ingenue, but a big deal back then) and she played Nettie who, of course, has the beautiful ballad, "You'll Never Walk Alone." My parents had brought along a little tape recorder to the show, and recorded it from the audience, so it's full of throat clearings and rustlings and audience laughter up close, while the performance is a bit distant. But there we are, clear as day (clear as a memory, which is very clear indeed, no matter whether accurate or not), singing our hearts out with young, strong voices and all the opportunities in the world in front of us. So we sat in her kitchen and listened to "What's the Use of Wondrin'" and "Walk Alone," amazed at how easy it seemed and how many years have passed since that night. She talked of how sometimes she felt better as a counselor than as a teacher; she liked it when her students came to her with problems she could talk with them about, but hated the general class apathy and acting out that she had to deal with every day. The kids don't care about music; they don't care about her. A far cry from our old school, our director; we didn't know what an exceptional era we were in. She was trying to make a substantive difference, but has ended up a voice crying in the wilderness -- and a hoarse one at that.

But Normandy is a vivacious, creative person with a righteously silly heart, a grand sense of humor, a vivid curiosity about life, and many years left to employ and enjoy these things. It seems in the right order of the Universe that something must shift.

So when she called me last week and announced, "I've been suspended!" it didn't come as a complete shock, I guess. But who could have predicted it would all be on account of a renegade undergarment?

A couple of her girl students somehow came up with this 38D bra; I can't remember why, but it was a prop or something, and when they were done with it they decided, as a prank, to put it in a bag and give it to Normandy as a gift. So at the start of class one day they sidled, giggling, up to her desk and offered the bag. Normandy, always ready for a bit of fun, said, "Oh, well, all right, what is it?" and pulled out this enormous bra.

Much laughter... much jibing. "How ridiculous!" she said. "I couldn't possibly wear this; it's much too big! Why... it would even fit OVER my clothes!" And she proceeded to don the object of mirth over her bulky cordeuroy shirt. Phones came out; pictures were taken. More laughter and silliness. Someone said, "This is too good! This has to go in the yearbook!" and went to get the camera.

Well, in short, the yearbook captain saw the pic in the camera when it was returned, and went directly to the principal. Within a couple of hours Normandy was in the office with a lot of 'splainin' to do.

And it's been nothing but 'splainin' ever since, in between the reprimanding. After several meetings, it's been deemed that the week after Christmas she will be suspended without pay, and then they'll see what else will happen. They plan to tell her students a lie about her having "an emergency."

It's true that she lives and works in a very conservative area, in a state that (she explains) has been dealing with numerous issues of sexual harrassment and misconduct, and it's understandable that those in authority are paranoid about how things will look if they get out into the world. And I guess they have to punish her, because donning an undergarment on top of one's clothes is not a responsible thing to do in a middle school classroom (although Superman did it for years in public, and nobody stopped him, besides which it's no less than what any of these kids will find on Monty Python reruns or Little Britain any day of the week); however, what stabs me in the heart is seeing Normandy squashed into a little bottle and not allowed to be her wacky, life-loving, spontaneous self. And right now, it hurts her a lot because everyone is frowning upon her and making her feel like a criminal.

In another context that would have been a life-affirming gesture.

So she's looking for temp jobs for that week, trying to keep her spirits up, trying to be gentle inside the anger. I'm hoping she can come visit soon. And I have a hunch this is the Universe at work, the mysterious, wild Dove of change come to wreck everything so that she can rebuild her life the way she wants it. One day you get a telegram saying, "Be careful what you ask for!" and the next day you're suspended from that job you hate.

Risky times, these.

********

Walked again at the gym today, and ran just a handful of laps, did errands, some computer maintenance. Washed my newly cut hair. It looks a little juvenile now that it's blunt-cut just below the jaw, but I'm enjoying it anyway. All Christmas packages have been sent. I put up the Dresden angels my mother bought in Germany around 1969. There are eight of them; six are playing instruments, and two are either singing or warming their hands at a fire; I've never figured out which. Anyway, I'm pretty decorated now except I haven't found a fir bough thing to hang over a doorway.

My bandmates are safely in Florida, visiting Carol's parents. We're all wondering if this will be her dad's last Christmas. It's a still night in the neighborhood now that the Squatleys next door have shut off the boom box. (What were they doing outside in the 27 degree dark?) I think I'll go curl up with A Christmas Story and see again how Ralphie scores his Red Ryder BB gun.