I Met Her in a Bar

“How did the two of you meet?” asked the social worker. She was conducting a home study that would determine if we were fit to adopt a child from China. My wife and I exchanged nervous glances. We had not done a mock interview like a politician prepares for a debate. We had not thought to anticipate what types of questions might be asked. We could have answered this question two different ways. However, as we looked at each other, our anxious faces melted into a shared smile. It was clear that we each knew what the other was thinking. Simultaneously, we answered, “We met at a bar.” It was one of those magic moments when two people in love know each other so well that a quick glance communicates volumes.  The social worker judgmentally clucked her teeth and clicked her pen a couple of times. Then she said flatly, “I’ll say you met at a social club.”

Since our mutual friend, James, had been at the bar with me and had made the introduction, we could have just said that we met through a friend. According to a recent study conducted by Stanford University most people meet through a friend. In 1989, the year we met, forty percent of couples met this way. Twenty percent met at a bar.

I have been telling the story about how we answered the social worker to people for over ten years now. I have wondered to myself about why my wife and I answered the way we did. It was a slightly risky answer given that this person had the authority to deny us the ability to adopt our daughter. I think that maybe because meeting at the bar marked the point where our two separate paths met. It was from that place that we began to walk the same road together. And what a glorious trip we had been on since meeting in that smoke-filled, crowded, and noisy tavern. By the time we were required to sit down with this adoption official, we had fallen in love.  Together, we had hiked mountains, swam in the ocean, and picked wild blackberries. We had given birth to a baby girl. Our daughter had joined us on our path and the three of us had become a family. Together, we had read stories, taken bike rides, and played in gentle streams.  Fine. The social worker can say that we met at a social club, but we know that we met at a bar. And it was a beautiful thing.

Love in a Tavern

A sonnet of sorts by LeGette 

Dream of a diamond in the depths of a cavern

Waiting to be discovered, polished, adorned.

Love may be biding in a back-alley tavern

Still yet to be uncovered, recovered, or born.

Blackberries will always be found in graveyard fields.

We believe rivers will remain easy to cross.

Knowing ever ripe sweetness our vineyard will yield

Stones in our path will be softly covered in moss.

 

And yet diamonds are still forming now as we speak

And blackberry season returns year after year.

Just as the ocean is filled by stream and by creek

From a tap in a tavern, love is flowing like beer.

Abandon not the cavern, keep crossing the stream

Find love in a tavern, more real than a dream.

With the help of Jamie Hoover, this sonnet is now also a song. Here it is: Blackberries!

The Academic Path Less Taken

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference." Robert Frost

It’s a miracle that I was never held back a grade by the time I got to high school. My report cards were littered with the letter F.  Somehow, I managed to squeak by each year. Lots of last minute extra credit work. This pattern followed me into high school. I was failing or just barely passing most classes my sophomore year. Near the end of that year, we were given a national standardized test to take. I liked these tests. It changed up the schedule and they typically seemed easy to me. So, I took the test and as usual, I heard my friends talk about how hard it was. I didn’t get it. It was easy stuff.

The results came back and my verbal score was 98^th percentile. 

My tenth-grade English teacher at North Mecklenburg High School, Mrs. Scarborough was a no-nonsense type. She barked out our names and insisted we keep our shirts tucked in. She was stern, but kind on a one on one basis. When the test results came to her attention, she asked me to stay after class. She gave me a hard stare and said, “Do you know what these results say about your ability in English class?” I shrugged. She said, “Don’t you shrug your shoulders at me. You score a 98 percentile! You know how to use your words!” I said that the test seemed easy to me. She sat back and looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Are you bored in my class?”, she asked. 

A million thoughts raced through my head. I was bored in every class. I could not wait for each class to come to an end. The clock always moved tortuously slow. But I could not tell Mrs. Scarborough any of that. I squeaked out, “No ma’am.” She replied, “I think you are bored, and that’s OK.” She said that she was not upset with me. She felt that I was not being challenged enough in my classes and that is why I was making bad grades. Oh no, what had I gotten myself into? I could see the stacks of harder work piling up in my head. No. Mrs. Scarborough, I don’t think boredom is the issue. I do not want to have to do harder work. I’m failing now. My grades will only get worse. Mrs. Scarborough said she would be talking to my parents and that she was recommending that I be placed in advanced Language Arts and Social Studies courses for eleventh grade. Ugh. Two roads diverged before me. Who will guide me to the right path?

I kept the first for another day.

So, that’s how this nearly failing student ended up in advanced classes the next school year. I was still in math and science with all my buddies. But then for third period I reported to Advanced Language Arts with Mrs. Maye. She was young and pretty. She spoke with a soft voice. I thought these kids are going to walk all over her.  But there was something different going on. The other students were sitting quietly in their seats. They actually seemed to be eagerly awaiting to hear from our new teacher. I’d never experienced that. There was no cross-room banter. No papers being tossed across the room. It was quiet. So, I sat quietly as well.

Mrs. Maye had written her name on the board. She proceeded to tell us a little about herself. She had a nephew that she was very proud of. He was a basketball star at one of our rival high schools. I’m not sure that scored her the points she was expecting. However, I was about to become an uncle myself, and I could relate to the pride she displayed. In my other classes, some students were already parents or about to be parents themselves. I scanned the room. No pregnancies in here. I saw kids I recognized, and a few that I knew. Kids who easily adapted between their more academic friends and their friends who seemed to have no real interest in school other than the parties.

I believe we started the year with poetry. Secretly, this excited me. I had fancied myself a poet. 

I dabbled in rhymes. I had a few friends from the bus and from journalism class that I shared my writing with. All girls. Girls loved a good rhyme. I had no real clue about poetic devices, but Mrs. Maye was about to change that. I fell in love with alliteration and assonance. I was thrilled to discover that onomatopoeia was a real thing. I asked Mrs. Maye if I could share Todd Rundgren’s song about it with the class. She warily agreed, and then delighted in the song once she realized it was clean!! “Onomatopoeia, every time I see ya, my senses tell me hubba, and I just can’t disagree-a, I got a feeling inside that I can’t describe, it’s sort of whack, whir, buzz, beep, echo, hiccup….” The class loved it too. Kids actually thanked me for sharing it. This would not have happened with my regular buddies. I would have been the target of lots of jokes about my musical taste. “Why didn’t you play some AC/DC?”, I imagined they would have asked. I had taken the path less traveled by.

Then we moved on to writing poems. There was a bunch of lessons about rhyme and meter that frankly frustrated me. It seemed like math. I wanted to freely express myself without rules. I managed through this portion of the semester. At the start of first quarter, we were finally able to begin writing our own poetry. Mrs. Maye had done an excellent job exposing us to a variety of styles, across various cultures. I loved Langston Hughes, Edgar Allen Poe, but my favorite was Robert Frost. Particularly, The Road Not Taken. 

Mrs. Maye guided us through writing poems by first having us follow well established patterns. For the first time since grade school, I was proud of the work that I was creating. It was not A-level work, but it was B and B+. My parents were happy. My mother shared poems that she had written in high school with me. She was good, and I had no idea about that prior to eleventh grade. It was a new connection that we could share, and I have Mrs. Maye to thank for that.  My first poems rambled, lacked the rhyme and meter that makes a poem flow properly. Mrs. Maye took an interest. She saw something in my work that indicated potential. She spent time with me at her desk. She helped me hone the work. But, she also allowed some of my sloppier work that seemed artistically significant to me at the time. A master teacher who did not want to push so hard as to squash my new-found excitement about school work.

Toward the end of the year, I decided to push my limits with Mrs. Maye. I was testing her, but also struggling to find a balance between my cool, rock and roll persona and my new-found enthusiasm for education. The assignment was to write a research paper on a famous American poet. I chose Jim Morrison, the lead singer for The Doors. Morrison considered himself a poet. In addition to cryptic lyrics with shamanistic overtones in the music by The Doors, Morrison wrote long multi-stanza poems that were probably sophomoric compared to the greats that Mrs. Maye had in mind. But they were full of angst and crazy spirituality that fascinated me. Mrs. Maye asked me to meet with her to discuss the project. She was kind, but discouraging. She worried that there would not be enough research material. I dug in and argued that Rolling Stone magazine, as well as books on the life of “The Lizard King”, a name he had given himself, were adequate materials. In the end, she reluctantly agreed.

Of course, I turned it in late and suffered the consequence of a letter grade reduction. But I think I still made a B-.  I’ll never forget the dedication of Mrs. Maye to her students. I will always remember the fact that she noticed my potential and held me to account. I will be forever grateful that she realized the critical moment to step back and let me do an ill-advised research paper because she saw the value in fostering my enthusiasm rather than remaining rigid in insisting on a more traditional subject.   

And I am grateful to Ms. Scarborough who was the first to really question why I was not working up to my potential. Many thanks to these fantastic teachers. Who knows where that other road would have landed me at this point in my life. I can only say that I have no regrets about being directed down the road less traveled. It made all the difference.