Funny, what sets off a memory. Journal entry # 4222

Random Scotto factoid: until high school, I attended a different school every year.. sometimes two or three. Massachusetts, Virginia, DC, Florida… all up and down the east coast.

Random Scotto memory –

In about the third or fourth grade… I forget when, exactly. I was in VA at the time, and I feel that I was taking a bus in to school, though it may have been a private transport. I hung out with two or three kids that I liked, and my brother was still very little, but was in school, but a different location. Kindergarten, I think.1 One of the first days into the new school year, we all introduced ourselves to the rest of the class… talked about family, hobbies, favorite toys, and whatever. For some reason, I said that I had a twin brother and that he didn’t go to the school I was at because he needed “special doctors”. I used my younger brother’s name for that of my twin’s, and got some odd looks from the teacher.

Later that day, (week?) some school authority called my parents to confirm the story that night. I was in the room at the time when the phone call came in, and as soon as I heard my dad say “Twin?” I knew that I was caught. I can remember the look I got from him to this day… the trademark “Mr. Spock / Lee Majors single-eyebrow lift” and got a talking to. “Why did you lie to your teachers and classmates, Scott? What was your reasoning?” 2 My reply at the time was “I don’t know… I just did.” I was told in no uncertain terms that I’d been raised better than that, and was confined to my room that night. Being sent to my room was no big deal 3, but I was unhappy that I’d disappointed my parents. Before bed, I’d resolved to apologize to the teacher and class the next day.

The next morning, the teacher whose face I can’t remember asked me about my “twin brother,” in front of the whole class. A little annoyed that I couldn’t introduce the topic and apologize properly, I replied pretty nonchalantly 4 for a little kid with “Oh, I made that up…my brother’s too little for this school, that’s why he doesn’t go here… I thought it’d be a neater story if I’d said he was weird like that. I’m sorry for telling a lie… My brother is nice.” 5 The apology was accepted, and the fib was pretty much glossed over from there on.

I wonder if that teacher remembers me, and those events at all? It had to have been about 25 years ago. I know that I made an impression on my high school teachers…I’d get feedback from my brother later on from teachers that’d had me, and then him, a few years later.

quick question: unrelated.
When did they introduce the slash lj-cut control! I’m seeing it everywhere now!

1: I don’t remember many details of my childhood, at least not for immediate access and retrieval. Of my teacher’s names. I remember Mrs. Scott for obvious reasons, but much of grade 2-5 are a blur that only come into focus in spits and starts. I remember some things very vividly, and others just barely. I can pick out the colors of my textbooks, and remember a few of the worksheets and people… but much is just sort of a smudge. Sometimes, parts of that smudge become more clear with a memory spark, and I get a sharp mental image… but sometimes I wonder if they happened the way I remember it, or if it’s been overly colored by time, space, and a child’s imagination. Do false memories exist for non-traumatic experiences?

2: One of the many things I appreciate about my father is that he talked to me like an adult. No real yelling or “because I say so” logic. He’d ask what I was thinking, and offer advice and punishment (sometimes both) based on what I’d say in return. He was a very sharp, even brilliant man, and I think that he’s almost totally responsible for the directions my mind travels in today. If I have an ounce of smarts, it’s largely in part from how he raised me.

3: My room has always been a refuge… books to read, toys to play with, and a bed to sleep on, should all else fail to amuse… later, my folks figured that out, and would confine me to their room, or my brother’s, away from my stuff. Now *that* sucked. Uncomfortable “not-my-bed”, nothing to read, and If I went through my parent’s drawers, I’d be murdered. Best solution was looking for faces and patterns in the popcorn ceiling or wood grain… whatever patterns were visible, or looking outside and looking at the yard from a different perspective.

4: nonchalantly: That’s quite possibly the first time I’ve ever used that word in reference to myself pre-puberty.

5: Diplomatic way to apologise… make sure the “I’m sorry” is at the end, and don’t add a “but” or any modifying excuse afterward. Adding a modifier lessens the degree of apology. Another life lesson learned at an early age.

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