And though his boss and I both whole-heartedly agree, we also both readily admit we were two of “those” girls: the ‘all-A’s or bust”, overachievin’, Type A kind (I know, ugh!). And though my sharp husband needs no reminding, I assert my recovering perfectionist status, yet again. “I’m not saying I need Taggart to get all A’s,” I explain. “But I do expect him to work to his potential. Because he is bright and very capable. So, nope. I’m not accepting his B in French. If he earns a B, that’s one thing. But if he’s not working and not applying himself and not turning things in ON TIME for goodness sake, then his B is not acceptable to me!”
Jeff says to his boss, “Yeah, she still hasn’t gotten over a B she got in grad school!” To which I hotly reply, “I NEVER got less than an A in grad school, thank you very much! But I did get one B+ in my freshmen art class: Printmaking. And I’m still bitter. The teacher told me my art work looked like the kind of thing someone might hang over their couch in their living room. And I’m like, totally perplexed. I’m thinking, isn’t that the biggest compliment to an artist?? That a piece you created might mean enough to someone else that they’d like to hang it in their house???”
Needless to say, that first semester of freshman year, that class, that teacher . . . gave me fits, saw more than an ocean of tears, and rattled my perfectionism at its very hinges. It didn’t help that I was homesick as could be, my boyfriend was still at said home in his senior year of high school breaking all kinds of records in football and track and sending me the sweetest love notes (some of which I still have!), and I was in the throws of an eating disorder that regularly told me I was always too much for others to handle yet never enough to keep them around . . . it was a tough time indeed.
All A’s? They were the least of my concerns (because honestly, in my life and with my perfectionistic bent, that was a foregone conclusion). Except when that art teacher gave me the B+. And then, I was pissed. I marched down to the art building to work out some of my frustration and anger, to try to make sense of what it was that I was or wasn’t doing that was not up to this teacher’s standards. I started to work (harder) on one of my screen prints, enjoying the peace of no one else being there and losing myself in the solitude of the work, the paints’ colors and smells, and in my creation which I was trying to make looser and more acceptable to said teacher. “HOW can I please her?” I wondered. “Make her like me. Make her like my artwork . . . “ Usually, I’m really good at this “Pleasing Others” game, but right now I’m pretty pissed and pissed isn’t usually a pleasing kind of attitude so I’m not so sure exactly how all of this is going to work out . . . (That, and I don’t know enough yet to ask about pleasing myself – but that comes in due time. Indeed, it comes. Another story. Another time. But Hallelujah, Praise the Lord, it does come.)
So there I am, lost in my solitude and mental yoga, and who walks in but the teacher’s pet: Jody . . . honestly, probably the last person I want to see right now. A totally outside-of-the-lines artist with shoulder length hair he lets run any which way the wind blows, dirty khaki shorts and a stained t-shirt, he’s very creative and well-liked by the teacher (and I’m pretty sure he never got a B, but hey, who’s counting??). He’s a nice guy. Easy. Down-to-earth. I like him fine. We might not connect on a soul-deep level but he’s a good classmate. Fair and honest. Helpful. And I do think his artwork is good . . . But, I don’t get what exactly the teacher sees there that isn’t in mine. Aren’t we both creating something from nothing and aren’t I trying as hard, maybe even harder, than him? What ARE the standards for grading art? Who made ‘em up? I think grading art is wrong and these rules are stupid and I don’t like this class or this major or this college. So there!
And Jody, totally unaware of my internal tsunami, says, “Hey Meg, what’s up?” Now, he doesn’t know that only dear, dear friends or people that have known me a REALLY long time get to call me Meg. But I’ll let that pass. He doesn’t know me. Not really. We’ve talked. He’s from Nashville. He’s likeable, like any nice Southern boy might be. And at this point, he’s all I really know of Nashville. All I need to know. It’s presently beside the point.
So we started to chat. And maybe I felt safe enough to share with someone who wasn’t in my circle or maybe I just needed to get something off my chest or maybe it was the paint fumes and chemical solvents we used to clean our screens . . . I DON’T KNOW. But I ended up telling him I was upset that the teacher told me my prints looked like something someone might want to hang in their living room and that though I would normally think this was a compliment, she meant it like it definitely was NOT a good thing. And I was confused. And hurt. And I am used to succeeding and delivering what people want to see or hear. And, I was used to getting A’s because I work really hard and I AM WORKING REALLY HARD, and she gave me a B+, so I’m upset. In fact, Jody, I’m not liking anything. And I don’t feel like I fit in here. In this major. At this school. I miss home. I miss my boyfriend. And none of this is what I imagined it to be. Take that, teacher’s pet from Nashville, TN!
And you want to know what he said to me – this smart boy; this better-artist-than me-boy; this boy from a Nashville I didn’t yet know and didn’t want to know because I knew he was from there but that just wasn’t enough to pique my interest?? He said, “You know what you need to do Meg? You need to stop wearing a bra for awhile. You are too constricted. Too tightly wound up. Trying to control everything. You need to just let go and relax.” See how that feels and check back with me in two weeks, his matter-of-fact attitude seemed to say.
And you know what? Nothin’ else was working so . . . I did just that.
I went bra-less for like two weeks that freshman year of college and I really tried to embrace that experience, to be mindful and see how that felt. During that throwing-caution/breasts-to-the-wind time, I also loosened up with my art and created a silk screen made of splashes and handprints and splatters on the screen; there was nary a straight line or a right angle to be found on that print (O.K., well maybe just a couple. . . )! I titled it after my favorite Nietzsche quote from my freshman philosophy class, perhaps the most important thing I learned all year:
“One has to have chaos within to give birth to a dancing star."
But having that year and those hard, trying experiences led me to my next right thing. They lead me to my NEXT DANCING STAR. My college hopscotching took me from small Denison, to huge Michigan State, and landed me at just-the-right-size Vanderbilt University. And where, may you ask, is Vanderbilt University? Well, for those of you who may not know: NASHVILLE, TN. That town I didn’t know or really give much thought to? Well it, and Vanderbilt, became part of my story – a BIG part of my story - a chapters-and-chapters part of the book that is my life. Now, 25 years, three degrees, a husband and two kids later, Nashville is as much a part of me as my beloved northern Michigan. Who would’ve known??
And that Jody.
He might have been onto a couple things. He was right about my control issues; that perfectionist recovery wagon is just the right size, most days. He was indeed a good artist, a natural artist whose works are hopefully hanging over no one’s living room couch. anywhere. ever.
And Nashville.
He gave me a glimpse of Nashville before I’d call it my own: comfortable, easy-going, authentic, him and the town. But when I did claim it, it became more; so much more. It became the place where my grown-up life would begin and unfold. It became HOME. And it held, at its center, on McCabe Golf Course, the nicest Southern boy from Tennessee that I’d eventually marry and share my life with.
As fate would have it, I saw Jody here once, a couple years after I moved to Nashville and my star had begun to dance. At a bar in the Village on a crowded Saturday night. There I was, with my posse, all dressed up for a night on the town – tight striped top, black skirt, blonde bob, and full make-up – all ready to go! And as I made my way through the packed bar, I felt someone grab my arm. I turned and looked and though it took a second to register, I realized, hey, it’s Jody! He looked at me in disbelief, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “How are you? You look great!”
“I live here,” I said with a smile. “I’m getting my Masters degree in Counseling at Vanderbilt. I’m really happy. It’s all good.” My shoulders back, my head held high, friends beckoning me to join them, I hugged Jody and went to my people.
I didn’t say it, but I think he might have known. He was right about the whole bra thing.
Sometimes, bras ARE overrated; and sometimes . . . they’re NOT.
That night, I’m glad I chose the push-up bra.
P.S.
When I found my old art print to include in this post, Sage said, "Mom,
I love that! Did you make it? Can I hang it in my room?" Well, thank
God, someone likes it : ) Take that, mean ol' art teacher from Denison.
See, someone DOES want to hang it on their wall, thank
you very much!! That it's my very own daughter, absolutely perfect. I
wouldn't have it any other way.
No comments:
Post a Comment