I was knocked into the present, the unmistakable now, by Joni Friedman's head as
it collided with the right side of my jaw. Up until that moment my body had been
running around within the confines of a circle of fourth-grade children gathered
for a game of dodge ball, but my mind had been elsewhere. For the most part I
was an abysmal athlete, and I was deeply embarrassed whenever I failed to jump
bravely and deftly into a whirring jumprope, ever threatening to sting if I
miscrossed its invisible boundaries, like some science-fiction force field. Or
worse, when I was the weak link yet again in the school relay race. How could
one doubt that the order in which one was picked for the softball team was
anything but concurrent with the order in which Life would be handing out
favors?
Not that I considered myself a weak or easily frightened person; in more
casual games I excelled, especially at wrestling (I could beat every boy but one
on my street), playing war (a known sneak, I was always called upon to be the
scout), and in taking dares (I would do just about anything, no matter how
ludicrous or dangerous, though I drew the line at eating invertebrates and
amphibians). I was accorded a certain amount of respect in my neighborhood, not
only because I once jumped out of a secondstory window, but also because I would
kiss an old and particularly smelly neighborhood dog on the lips whenever asked.
I was a tomboy par excellence.
But when games turned official under the auspices of the Fleetwood Elementary
Phys-Ed Department, everything changed. The minute a whistle appeared and
boundaries were called, I transformed into a spaz. It all seemed so unfair: I
knew in my heart I had great potential, star potential even, but my knowing
didn't translate into hitting the ball that was coming my way. I resigned myself
early on, even though I knew I could outread, outspell, and outtest the
strongest kid in the classroom. And when I was picked practically last for crazy
kickball or crab relays, I defeatedly assumed a certain lackadaisical attitude,
which partially accounts for my inattention on the day my jaw collided with Joni
Friedman's head.
Maybe I was wondering whether Colleen's superiority at dodge ball would be
compromised by her all-consuming crush on David Cassidy, or maybe some other
social dilemma of prepubescence ruled that days game. I do know that the ball I
was going for was mine. I hadn't even bothered to call it, it was so obvious,
and though it was also obvious that Joni was going to try to steal it away from
me, I stood my ground. The whistle to stop playing began to blow just as the
ball came toward us, toward me. I leaned forward and Joni lunged sideways, and
suddenly all thoughts about Colleen's social status or Joni's ethics were
suddenly and sharply knocked out of me.
I felt the force of our collision in every one of my atoms as I sat, calm and
lucid though slightly dazed, on the asphalt. Everyone was running to get on
line. I assume Joni asked me how I was, but all I remember is sitting there
among the blurred and running legs, rubbing the right side of my jaw, fascinated
by how much pain I was in and by how strangely peaceful I felt. It wasn't the
sensation of things happening in slow motion, which I had experienced during
other minor accidents; it was as if time had mysteriously but logically shifted
onto another plane. I felt as if I could speculate and theorize about a thousand
different beautiful truths all in the time it would take my lips to form a
single word. In retrospect, I think it's possible I had a concussion.
My jaw throbbed. Rubbing it with my hand seemed to have no good or bad
effect: the pain was deep and untouchable. Because the pain was genuinely
unanticipated, there was no residue of anxiety to alter my experience of it.
Anxiety and anticipation, I was to learn, are the essential ingredients in
suffering from pain, as opposed to feeling pain pure and simple. This alien ache
was probably my first and last experience of unadulterated pain, which perplexed
me more than it hurt me.
The above is excerpted from Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
Fearless, gripping, at once darkly funny and tender, spanning three continents and numerous lives, Americanah is a richly told story set in today's globalized world.
The story of an American family, middle class in middle America, ordinary in every way but one. But that exception is the beating heart of this extraordinary novel.
The most mature work yet from an incomparable storyteller, TransAtlantic is a profound meditation on identity and history in a wide world that grows somehow smaller and more wondrous with...
First time novelist Vaddey Ratner captured my heart and senses in this novel based on her childhood in Cambodia. Her story transcends any news story...
read more
From the first page, I was drawn in by the lyrical writing of the author and mesmerized as the narrator, eight year old Raami, remembered the years...
read more
Trite but true, all good things must come to an end. I so wanted to keep reading the wonderful prose, the settings that let one think they are part...
read more
Kenn Nesbitt is new Children's Poet Laureate(Jun 12 2013) Kenn Nesbitt has been named the new Children's Poet Laureate: Consultant in Children's Poetry to the Poetry Foundation, which noted that the two-year position...
Full Story
