we on an ultralight beam. this is a God dream.

Serving 8

Petrified I stood, while my breath condensed against the seemingly expansive blackboard. In my right hand was the instrument of my salvation or damnation, a new, not yet used piece of white chalk.

“Show me how you write the number eight,” Sister Mary Rita said. Her eyes piercing into my back like knives, the hiss of her voice lulling me into her deadly trap.

The method taught in class was the sleek infinity style eight that sped through straightaways and drifted through banks. Yet in my homework that I had just handed in, I drew them the way my military father scolded me too. They were chunky snowman eights, clumsy slow and had to be carefully placed on top of one another, to prevent toppling over.

Sister stepped out of the room as I continued to stand there frozen. Do I arrange the eight as I was told? Do it like a wedding cake, precariously perched, one on top of the other? Or do I disregard my father and update my eight for the newer model? 

[Now looking back at it I wonder if I was more scared of my father’s belt for disobeying him or the verbal flogging I would surely receive from the whip and lips of this pious nun.]

Knowing the sting of my father’s belt, I constructed my eight one circle on top of the other.

Whispers hurried through the air like little mice.

::No, no, thats wrong::

::You’re going to get in trouble::

::You’re going to get a demerit::

I could feel the tears in my eyes welling up.

“Well Daniel, show me how you made that eight,” she barked as she stormed back in the room.

[I remember hating her for laughing so much when she was outside the door. She joked with another nun and I could only imagine what they were discussing, the new color of their spring habits or some geriatric nude color shoes.]

Panicked, I could feel the sweat bead under the collar of my shirt. The chalk felt heavy in my hand and I could feel the clamminess build in my palms. 

“Trace it.”

The chalk lay in my hand like a pencil.

“HOLD IT THE WAY I TAUGHT YOU!”

It fumbled in my hand, and I trembled as I placed the tip of the chalk against the cold blackboard. I began at the top and curved around the first bend, careful to not stray from the path. 

Their eyes. I could always feel their eyes on my back. Not only Sister Mary Rita’s but all the kids in my class. My parted hair and chubby round peanut M&M body being inspected by dozens of eyes. It made my skin crawl.

Two tyrants warring over my free will to choose how to draw my eight. A crossroads of life at the age of six played out on the blackboard of my first grade classroom. I can either top the cake or curve the S to the relief of all my classmates. 

When two elephants fight it’s the grass that suffers. Even when those elephants are in your head.