Verbal Lasso

When I was in second grade, I thought I understood the meaning of the word “if.” If promised nothing. If was a code word for gyp. If was a blackmailing word. There could be no end to what I would be required to do to maybe, only just maybe, get what I wanted. I was more a “when” kind of girl, with the certainty that goes along with the word. The only kind of surprises I liked were pleasant ones.

One day, my teacher sent me on an errand to get a third-grade teacher’s signature. It seemed to be a routine task, but there was one problem: this teacher terrified me. In the fashion of the day, she teased and sprayed her long black hair into unbending shape. Her eyes were like Halloween every day: a garish coating of eye shadow, Catwoman eyeliner, and beads of mascara. With those theatrically made-up eyes, she seemed, more than other grown-ups, to really look down on me.

She was reading aloud as I opened the door to her classroom, stopping abruptly as I entered. Whether I wanted to or not, I was making an entrance. The only sound in the room was my footsteps. Her expression told me that my very presence displeased her.

Nevertheless, she accepted the piece of paper I delivered, signed it and handed it back to me. Whew! That was easier than I’d expected. I was nearly to the door, when she cleared her throat, and casting a verbal lasso, she called, “Wait; there’s one more thing I need to write.” She took the paper and wrote vigorously for a moment before handing it back to me. A few of the kids giggled. I was heading for the door, when she called again, “Oh, and one more thing.” She called me back several more times, and by the end of this performance, the entire class was roaring with laughter.

All that for one lousy signature! For years, I assumed her intention had been to humiliate me. I had been her marionette, her joke. Thinking and writing about the word if challenged my understanding not only of the word’s meaning, but also of this experience. Now I believe her little slapstick was primarily a lesson to her class about who was the boss. They would laugh when she was funny, even if it took roping me back five times. It was nothing personal against me; I was just a prop. My embarrassment was a bonus.

If she had simply given me her signature, it would have been an unmemorable encounter. Ultimately, I got what I came for that day, and carried away a little extra: a memory that lasted long enough for my perspective to catch up to its meaning. Getting something different than you bargained for is a characteristic of the word if. The only sure thing about if is its potential for something, no matter how undefined or late in arriving.

Story ID:	2161
Written by:	Diana Shellenberger (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Sunnyvale CA USA
Year:	1969