This week, construction workers hurt my feelings. Even more so than the construction worker this summer who, thinking I was out of hearing distance, muttered to his co-workers, “What kind of sanctimonious prig makes us suspend operations just so he doesn’t have to circumvent our rubble.” I am paraphrasing to keep this family-friendly while still accurately communicating his opinion of me.
I was shocked and felt foolish when I heard him say that, because I thought they had stopped operations for me. I was walking along a sidewalk and noticed workers ahead using a backhoe, tearing out the sidewalk to access what I assume was a water main. As I am not quick on my feet, literally or cognitively, I was unsure what to do and just kept walking, hoping the right answer would reveal itself. As I drew close to the backhoe, they “suspended operations” and the workers all stopped to watch me. Relieved that this was the sign I was looking for, I carefully stepped over and through their rubble and proceeded on. It never occurred to me that the assumed and expected behavior was to cross the street and use the other sidewalk instead of walking through an active construction zone. Instead, I thought to myself, what kind of construction workers stop what they are doing just for me? I’m not a sanctimonious prig, I’m just obtuse, and maybe a little arrogant. For the record, I have no idea if they were actually working on a water main or what that even means. I don’t know anything about excavation, mining, or digging for oil, which all seem related in my mind.
But this week, the hurt by construction workers was far deeper. They tore down my grade school, Lolo School. It is only a building, and yet I was genuinely saddened. So I found myself reflecting and asking questions I didn’t expect to care about. Do I remember my first day there? Which teachers made the biggest impact? What regrets do I have? What life lessons did I gain? What were my favorite moments? And is it really my fault that vomit buckets and Play-Doh buckets looked the same to me in first grade? I still think Mrs. Spencer may have overreacted a little.
The only one of those questions that was easy to answer was what my favorite moment was. That would be the hug I received every day from my second-grade teacher, who I thought was gorgeous and was officially my first childhood crush. I suppose that might also answer the question about which teacher made the biggest impact.
I do not remember my first day of school. But I was raised going to church and was fairly sheltered by my mom, and I embraced both of those things. So the first recess where I watched some hoodlum go down the slide on his feet and then shout a curse word in celebration when he successfully landed his jump, I remember thinking, what school of Sodom and Gomorrah have my parents enrolled me in?
It was in that moment that I discovered my purpose: to eradicate all vulgar language at Lolo School.
As always, this is all true, including the following. In fourth grade, I realized my persistence was paying off when one day at recess, the fourth-grade boys played the fifth-grade boys, and not a single curse word was uttered by either side. The fact that I was the only one who brought a football to school that day, and therefore had the implied authority to establish and enforce the “G-rated talk” rule, may have aided my cause.
Being the one with the football came with other benefits. Rather than being the last one chosen by the two teams, I also declared myself one of the captains and designated my best friend as the other captain.
Looking back, I am amazed and appalled at my tyrannical and pharisaical behavior. By eighth grade, I had softened a bit on my anti-filthy-language crusade and relocated my energy into anti-drinking. Yes, in eighth grade. This was Lolo School in the early 80s. Early on in the year, I declared that our eighth-grade graduation party would be held at my house, but only fellow classmates who took a vow of sobriety would be invited. To ensure compliance, each week leading up to the big day, I surveyed, some might say interrogated, my fellow classmates to make sure they stayed on the straight and narrow.
You know what, as I reflect on these memories, it begs the question: how did I have any friends at all? Also, those construction workers might be right. Maybe I am a sanctimonious prig after all.
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