On Winning Pencils

Mark Ryan flashed through my mind. Couldn’t imagine why or what the connection was, since at the moment I was nonchalantly checking out a man who was studiously checking out a young woman. I was making no judgment, just vaguely exploring my memory as to the last time a man checked me out. Jealousy wasn’t a factor, but I wondered how could I compete with a young woman in catching a man’s interest. Can I? I, too, have needs and desire for male attention. How do I once again attain what I’ve always in the past taken for granted: a man’s desire/lust/craving/need/attention/drool/goggle eyed/grasping/wishful thinking/ogling/wet dreaming/craze for me. And then up popped Mark Ryan into my feverish thoughts. The redhead, freckle-faced Mark and his family had just moved from Philadelphia to Brooklyn that mid-fifties spring. I remember marveling at the creeping redness over his cheeks, nose, and ears as he introduced himself to our fourth-grade class. He was a friendly kid, always quick with a smile. I don’t remember feeling that he was a threat. In Mrs. Berman’s class, I was the reigning spelling bee champ. Every Friday, we’d line up and wait our turn to spell a word she’d give of the many we were suppose to have memorized. One-by-one a student returned to their seat after misspelling a word. I was always left standing. Me, the smart, but shy and quiet girl, accomplishment recognized by her teacher and peers. The reward: a brand new, yellow No. 2 Ticonderoga pencil with a little pink eraser crowning the top. My collection was at least a satisfying baker’s dozen that I harbored in my desk drawer to finger: to get me through unfulfilling or insecure moments, a tactile reminder of my true value. The class was unaware that my spelling confidence hadn’t grown from studying the assigned words each week. Instead my knowledge blossomed during weekly visits to my grandparents’ home, studying two gigantic volumes of a Webster dictionary on the carpeted floor at my Grandpa’s knees. He kept those books in the front parlor where he sat by the coal-burning fireplace, smoked his pipe, and read the newspaper or watched a ballgame on the rabbit-eared antennae black-and-white television. The front parlor was for company only – and for Grandpa anytime he wanted. But Grandpa didn’t mind me. He didn’t have to shush or order me to stop fidgeting. Because I was reading the dictionary, Grandpa liked to let me sit at his knees – and I liked to read the dictionary because Grandpa let me sit at his knees. Those days I learned at lot of words. In my nine-year-old mind, Mrs. Berman’s pencils symbolized the serene, non-verbal, communicating hours between my Grandpa and me. Mark Ryan won my next pencil the first week of his arrival. Short of making me an orphan, I couldn’t imagine a more devastating event. I didn’t cry; I was numb. Then, unaccountably, I was afraid. No pencils, no recognition? No pencils, no love? No pencils, what? The fear slid through me and then resolved into determination: I was getting my pencil back! For the first time, I studied the assigned spelling words. Studied hard. The next week, I won my pencil. Mark simply flushed, smiled, and returned to his seat. I was the one left standing. Until the end of that school year, I never stopped studying the spelling words – and I always won my pencil. Now I realize those young women I see are Mark Ryan, and I’m going to beat them in my own way. Haven’t figured out how yet, but I still have the confidence I gained at my Grandpa’s knees. I can’t be naturally like them, but I sure can study how to be the best at who I am – and that’s pretty damn good. Check me out and see if I don’t win my pencils again.