Great Undertakings

This is another convent school story, this time set in Panama.

Great Undertakings

“You will, of course, do your best; won't you?”

I wasn't sure. It seemed to be out of my range. To sit in the quiet sewing room knowing that for an entire school year I was to work on one corner of a tablecloth, to stitch one rose from a million tiny markings—to do this alone, unsupervised, and well-trusted-- frightened me. There was no allowance for mistakes; the undersides of the cloth were to be as perfect as the reverse. A lesson was involved in this, something of the notion that there was no hiding from the Lord, or, more importantly, there was to be no shame in any endeavor. An undertaking should sparkle in its worth from every angle.

“If you work diligently every day, one sunny afternoon in May it will be finished and you can keep it always to show you never slackened.”

But what if I did? There it would be to remind me that I had slackened. Was it possible for me not to slacken? How would I ever keep my mind on it? I couldn't keep my mind on anything for long. It wandered off by itself so much, the least little word shaking it loose.

Sister Prisca continued her instructions. “I know you will do nicely. The others will be looking to you when it comes to the end of the year. You are the only American and we are very proud. Sister Marta says you are certain to get the good conduct prize, too."

I felt a moment of happiness because the prize was beautiful, then remorse because good conduct was easy for me. It was not like actually doing, more like the absence of doing. Bad conduct involved daring and concentration and wanting to stir up hornets' nests. As I saw it, bad conduct was not much fun, not compared to sitting in the alcove watching the swallows and reading Treasure Island. If only the tablecloth could be as easy as good conduct; if only it could be less long-term and not so constantly expecting all my effort. Why, because I was a foreigner, did I have to be an example?

I was thinking this past Sunday about the tablecloth. I have kept it with me. I never finished it. The part I did is done tidily but the failure of what I didn't do is clear. It has been a regret that I couldn't finish. However, on this same last Sunday, I thought about the tablecloth and what I was doing now; I came to a new conclusion.

I was sitting in the park. I was wishing that I could write something special this week because it was an anniversary for me: my first year at prose would be up in five days. I never dreamed a year ago that I'd still be here and that what I'd learn in Burt's class was nothing about writing and a great deal about myself. I never expected it to be an odyssey, both fanciful and deadeningly true into my past. At that time, my past was of no interest to me. Simple curiosity brought me to the Village. I wanted a look at a writer, a chance for the fun of it, to see if the man matched the humor column in the Los Angeles Times. It was a lark, a diversion, like staying up on Christmas Eve to interview Santa, to see if he liked his job or not. I had concocted in my mind a person and wanted to find out if the shoe fit. I thought that this writer might be very fat with small feet, strangely deep-blue eyes and bushy eyebrows; possibly he would speak with an ever so slight Russian accent and he would not be serious on any subject whatsoever. I thought I would be uncomfortable in his presence because I didn't know any jokes, was not chic, liberated or well-informed. The catalog said to bring along a sample of work so I decided to try to write something funny and careless. I sensed I was in trouble. Despite my high spirits, the writing came out too merry and at the same time, too serious. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. I fussed and fretted and made a pact that I'd go to one class and quit. One class would give me my glimpse and who needs writing, anyhow? I'd rather read.

May 9^th, 1974, was as Walter Cronkite used to say, “A day which alters and illuminates our lives.”

The first piece read at that first class was awful, just dreadful, as was the second and third. But the fourth was not and that is apparently when my odyssey began. The story was strong but alien to my way of life. I felt as though I had been beamed down from a planet where the inhabitants live in the rafters of merry-go-rounds. Burt said he liked the story; it was good. I wanted to say, “No, no you mustn't accept that. It isn't good.” It was then that I had an odd feelig of having some sort of mission, something that needed explaining. I was also nagged by the impossibleness of it. Looking at Burt and seeing not the fat man with the jokes but a no-nonsense leaness made me think of Sister Prisca. He seemed to expect the best or why bother. Well, I would do what I could but not for long.

Each week I wrote and rewrote my homework a dozen times. I had no idea where I was headed or what I was trying to say. In class I was defensive and didn't like to be asked my opinion on anything. What do creatures from merry-go-rounds know but the spinning and the music? I became preoccupied with the subject of failure. I began to examine myself and my life closely. Did I really have to take the blame for giving up on marriage? Or was it that you can't plunk a gopher into the middle of a river and hope for happiness? Should I take credit for the succes I've had with my children? Or was it a matter of inevitability—give dandelions a chance and they grow jubilantly. Would it have been different if they were different? Was the fact that I am indispensable at kindergarten a proof of grandiose educational schemes? Or is it that kindergarten is the ideal place to sing and clown and talk about Beethoven. Would it be better ,as Scott said, to write a children's book because, “You always have a moral and you don't like facts.” Or is adulthood the very place for lessons and fantasy? I was chronically plagued with uncertainty and fitfulness but underneath it all I knew there was no getting around it. I did have a mission and something to explain.

In the last few days of my year being up, it has all come in a rush together. Maybe it was Erica Jong rubbing me the wrong way; maybe it was Ross and her, “To this day, I wear shoes when I go out to play.” Maybe it was Burt. I'm not sure. I do know that now I can safely say I will be true to myself and know who myself is

The lessons of my childhood are that I believe in excellence, in diligence, in good conduct because I prefer it, in politeness, and whimsy. The lesson I learned in class is that despite excellence, diligence, good intentions and humor, I can fail. And survive and fail and succeed and fail again. Often I can fail through no fault of mine.

I look at the rose and I look at my stack of stories and I feel that perhaps Sister Prisca and I were on the same side. She only asked me for my best. For her, it was the undertaking of something grand that counted. She never intended that I assume the burden of judging. Thinking back, I'm sure the harshness I have brought to bear on myself she would find unbecoming.

I am ready not to sit back, to rest from my mission for awhile. I am ready to climb back up into the rafters and hear the merry-go-round once again in motion. There are grand undertakings ahead and I am glad.

It has been a dazzling, dangerous, funny, tormenting odyssey, a year like no other. If anybody asks me how I liked Burt's class and why I stayed so long, I will say, “Because it was wonderful and I needed the time to finish up my rose.”