Fortuitous
Words
My family liked to tell me that it was my mom’s fault.
She read to me when I was still in her womb.
She read to me when I was new.
She read to me when I wasn’t so new.
She gave me books.
She taught me to read.
She taught me to write.
When I went to school, my teachers liked me.
And they didn’t.
They said I was smart. Too smart.
I was ahead of the other kids.
It messed up their plans.
I was already a year ahead of other kids.
They said I wouldn’t be socially prepared for
another advance.
So while the other kids were barely learning the alphabet,
I was already reading books.
I messed up their plans.
When I was in third grade, I wanted to read a
certain library book.
My teacher said no.
Because I was in third grade.
And the book was at a seventh grade reading level.
My teacher said no.
But the school librarian winked at me.
She gave me the book.
My teacher decided to make use of me.
She made me correct papers and tests
when I finished mine early.
She said that I caught and corrected things
that she missed.
It was the first time my teacher said she was proud of me.
And that’s when I knew that I wanted to be an editor.
I loved books. I loved writing.
I loved the feel of paper in my hands.
I loved the way ink smeared across the page.
I loved words and all that they expressed.
I was seven years old when I figured out what I wanted.
I knew what I wanted.
Words were the life of me.
My entire life was dedicated to words.
Until Brian came along.
Words weren’t the only things I loved.
I loved my grandmother, who loved to cook
and I loved to help her.
She taught me her secrets that nobody could understand.
My cousins wanted exact measurements.
But I knew that a pinch of salt was just a pinch.
A splash of milk was a splash.
There were no measuring cups or
spoons in my grandma’s kitchen.
She taught me everything she knew.
And I served Brian everything I knew.
And he liked it.
He told me to bake or cook him something every day.
So I did.
I loved my English teacher.
She was everything an English teacher should be.
She was intelligent.
She was passionate.
She was desperate.
She was in love.
And above all, she was honest.
And she told Brian something that he’ll never forget:
“You lack passion. You lack dedication. What exactly are you doing with your life?”
Brian decided that he hated her.
And he hated that I loved her.
And he would do all that he could
to get me to fail her class.
He decided that I would not get a career in literature.
He decided that I would be by his side
while he supported the both of us
while we were married and had children.
And I would cook and clean and speak when spoken to
and take the little ones to their soccer games
in our cute little minivan.
And that I would be the obedient wife
his mother never was.
I loved English.
I loved literature.
I loved words.
They were things I was good at.
But Brian didn’t like them.
So he took them away from me.
But what Brian didn’t know was that
I still passed my English class with high honors
and that I still talked to my English teacher
every day
during my free period
where Brian could not see me.
She read to me when I was still in her womb.
She read to me when I was new.
She read to me when I wasn’t so new.
She gave me books.
She taught me to read.
She taught me to write.
When I went to school, my teachers liked me.
And they didn’t.
They said I was smart. Too smart.
I was ahead of the other kids.
It messed up their plans.
I was already a year ahead of other kids.
They said I wouldn’t be socially prepared for
another advance.
So while the other kids were barely learning the alphabet,
I was already reading books.
I messed up their plans.
When I was in third grade, I wanted to read a
certain library book.
My teacher said no.
Because I was in third grade.
And the book was at a seventh grade reading level.
My teacher said no.
But the school librarian winked at me.
She gave me the book.
My teacher decided to make use of me.
She made me correct papers and tests
when I finished mine early.
She said that I caught and corrected things
that she missed.
It was the first time my teacher said she was proud of me.
And that’s when I knew that I wanted to be an editor.
I loved books. I loved writing.
I loved the feel of paper in my hands.
I loved the way ink smeared across the page.
I loved words and all that they expressed.
I was seven years old when I figured out what I wanted.
I knew what I wanted.
Words were the life of me.
My entire life was dedicated to words.
Until Brian came along.
Words weren’t the only things I loved.
I loved my grandmother, who loved to cook
and I loved to help her.
She taught me her secrets that nobody could understand.
My cousins wanted exact measurements.
But I knew that a pinch of salt was just a pinch.
A splash of milk was a splash.
There were no measuring cups or
spoons in my grandma’s kitchen.
She taught me everything she knew.
And I served Brian everything I knew.
And he liked it.
He told me to bake or cook him something every day.
So I did.
I loved my English teacher.
She was everything an English teacher should be.
She was intelligent.
She was passionate.
She was desperate.
She was in love.
And above all, she was honest.
And she told Brian something that he’ll never forget:
“You lack passion. You lack dedication. What exactly are you doing with your life?”
Brian decided that he hated her.
And he hated that I loved her.
And he would do all that he could
to get me to fail her class.
He decided that I would not get a career in literature.
He decided that I would be by his side
while he supported the both of us
while we were married and had children.
And I would cook and clean and speak when spoken to
and take the little ones to their soccer games
in our cute little minivan.
And that I would be the obedient wife
his mother never was.
I loved English.
I loved literature.
I loved words.
They were things I was good at.
But Brian didn’t like them.
So he took them away from me.
But what Brian didn’t know was that
I still passed my English class with high honors
and that I still talked to my English teacher
every day
during my free period
where Brian could not see me.