Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You by Sue William Silverman

Author:Sue William Silverman
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 978-0-8203-3778-4
Publisher: University of Georgia Press
Published: 2010-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Next week is Posture Week in junior high and each grade will award medals for Posture King and Queen. So badly do I need this medal, I can’t even think of a reason why. Maybe because I’ve never before won an award. Maybe I imagine myself proudly announcing my award to my parents one night at dinner. Maybe because I know I’ll never win an award for academics. But the reason doesn’t matter. I simply must win, must be Posture Queen for Ninth Grade. Over the weekend I practice walking with a book on my head. I stand with my back flat against the wall until my shoulders hurt. I sit on the edge of my bed ramrod straight until the muscles in my back ache. Then I force myself to sit like that even longer. My image of good posture has little to do with grace. It has to do with rigidity, inflexibility, stiffness. It has to do with a body immobilized and mute.

During each class period the teacher observes the students and hands out a wood chip to the one displaying the best posture. At the end of the day each student turns in his or her chips to the homeroom teacher, and at the end of the week the chips are tallied and the student with the most wins. I do little during class except sit rigid. I can’t take notes because I’d have to bend over the desk to write. My hands are neatly folded on top of the desk. My feet are flat on the floor. My neck is stiff, my gaze forward, my shoulders back. I can control my body. At the end of the first day, I have four chips.

By Thursday my back is so sore it hurts to walk, but I would never consider abandoning my goal. At the end of English, the teacher forgets to hand out chips and I know I can’t depart without one. I linger, hover by her desk, ask a question about the homework assignment—while watching the wood chips stacked next to her box of pencils. I must have one. If she turns her head I might steal one—or all of them. After she answers my question, I continue to stand rigidly by her desk. I’m not leaving. I try to will her to remember the chips, will her to give one to me, but she doesn’t understand why I linger.

“Those chips—” I nod toward them but am afraid to actually ask for one.

She glances at them. “Oh—I forgot to hand them out,” she says.

“I’ve been practicing my posture,” I say.

She glances at my empty desk as if I still sit there and she can see me. “Yes,” she says. “I think I remember your posture.” She picks up a wood chip. “Would you like one?”

I grab it from her hand before it’s fully offered. “Can I have two?” I say. “I know I’ll have just as good posture tomorrow.”

At assembly on Friday my name is announced: Posture Queen of the Ninth Grade.

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