In my short tenure as a college prof, I assigned an essay on the first day of class. The essay was to be titled, “A Brief History of My Education.” There were no limits, no rules. Just tell me about your education, whatever that means to you, I told my students. I emphasized scene, and told them to try to depict a tactile place (the five senses, etc.), however brief. I don’t think they were aware of the sneakiness of this assignment. You can learn a lot about a person by how they view themselves in relation to what they’ve learned (or think they’ve learned and/or missed). As I went through the essays, I was struck by the variegated experiences and institutions, and I was inspired to do the assignment myself. I set about the task, and could think of only one scene, one emotion that marked not only my education, but my childhood in general, one of great confusion. I submitted this to Brevity, and got an “almost” from the editors, but as I revised it, I realized it was lacking. It needed a few more beats. (Thanks, Melody, for the indispensable feedback.) I shopped it around a bit, but it’s an awkward length for most magazines, so here we are, here you are, a little micro essay for your Humpday. Thanks, as always, for reading. Though this story is as real as memory allows, I’ve changed names to protect privacy.
A Brief History of My Education The door handle rattled, and there was a thump and a groan. A short, spiky-haired woman burst into the classroom. Mascara ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot. She wore a shoulder-padded blazer, a skirt that fell below her knees, and ballroom-gown heels. She stalked the threshold for a moment and then, breathless, cried, “Revival!” and “We need to pray!” Mrs. Nelson clicked off the projector. She was seventy-ish, wiry as a mongoose, and would smack her hands together in the sign for “stop” while hollering, “Come on, people!” The upper registers of her voice like the rasp of a beagle howl. Her intensity was militaristic, and we were mostly afraid of her, so her instant subservience to this interloper was bizarre and alarming. We sensed the shift and gave heed. This was the winter of 1996—Algebra class at Maranatha Christian Academy in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota. Spiky-hair’s last name was Wetzel. None of us knew if she was a Miss or a Missus. She held some sort of supervisory role and was often seen in daily chapel waving flags and speaking in tongues. I avoided her if I saw her in the halls. She would drill into you with her rheumy sea foam eyes. Some thought she had a direct line to God. Finally, she moved from the threshold and lurched up the aisle, muttering and groaning, doubling over as if she were going to fall down slain in the spirit, grabbing desk corners to steady herself. My classmates, mostly white, middle class, and versed in the ways of Charisma, folded hands, bowed heads in prayer. This was the Holy Spirit, something I didn’t know much about. At home and in my neighborhood, one suburb over and a stone’s throw from North Minneapolis, Air Jordan was Jesus. Kirby Puckett was King. My street was racially diverse and decidedly working class. Kids ruled the sidewalks—until there was a drive-by-shooting the next block over or a drug bust at the liquor store on the corner, and then we hibernated for half a day and went right back to ripping around on our second-hand Schwinns. We traded baseball cards, bit Pop-Its between our teeth, and stole batteries from the gas station. In my small, religious school, however, my classmates were rapture-obsessed—it was all about the Left Behind book series and the doomsday Christian-pop sensation Carman and the jet-wielding, name-it-claim-it preacher, Kenneth Copeland. Reports of revival had been surging through the halls. Living Word, the school’s mega-church benefactor, had been hosting knockabout performances of healings and tongue-twisting jamborees for weeks. Guest preachers of the prosperity gospel variety — You want money? Pray for money! — delivered rowdy sermons wherein congregants bum-rushed the stage to receive relief from burdens of debt, sickness, or disease. Wetzel pulled the rollaway-cart TV from the corner and situated it front and center. She queued up a recently taped VHS of the Brownsville Revival and ordered us to watch and pray as she swayed back and forth, her sea foam eyes occasionally rolling into the back of her head. I thought about Ronny Holzhauer, the fifth grader who’d apparently gotten “the spirit” at one of these jamborees and floated off the stage. “Like, float-float?” I remember asking my friend Chris, whose dad also worked construction. “Yeah,” Chris had said. “Like, everyone was by the stage and holding their hands up and worshiping and Ronny just, like, danced over their hands. Floated.” “Hm,” I said. I knew little-to-nothing of Brownsville, except that Something Special was happening in the Sunshine State, and that we—all believers everywhere—should take note. On the screen I saw a stage much like the stage at Living Word, long and lushly decorated with fresh flowers and adorned with a Plexiglas lectern. On the screen a man with a big, round face shout-preached. Sweat stains bled through his immaculate suit. Wetzel stood next to the TV and, every now and then, doubled over as if she were going to barf on Vanessa Pederson in the front row. As the video played, Wetzel made her way up and down the aisles, praying and speaking in tongues and encouraging everyone else to do the same. Some did. Others prayed silently. I’d never wanted so badly to get back to fractions. What would I tell my parents? How would I explain what had happened in school that day? Even as I asked myself these questions, I knew the answer: I wouldn’t. We didn’t debrief about our days; we ate dinner in front of the TV. Mom ran a daycare, Dad a construction crew. We spoke little of God, and when we did, God was simply rationale for unacceptable behavior. Otherwise, we were just like any other family on the block, trying to make it to the next paycheck. Mom slept on the couch. Dad went to the casino. Occasionally, we’d go to a mild church that met in an old high school gymnasium. Mostly, we carried on in silence, as usual, each in our own worlds and in our own rooms. Dad in the garage. Mom in the kitchen. My sister on the phone. Me on the ratty, cat-scratched couch, staring up at another rerun of The Wonder Years, wondering if I’d ever understand.