I had an epiphany of sorts on my first day of finals for the second to last semester of my college senior year. I wish the setting were thrillingly dramatic like the Battle at Helm’s Deep with orcs screaming in the fell night air and blood flying everywhere. I also wish I were supremely awesome and could wield a broadsword, thereby being the cause of said orc screams and blood showers. Instead, my revelation occurred in a bland university classroom. I was wearing a Thumper sweatshirt, and I stood staring blankly at my professor’s smiling face. The time was 9:15 A.M.; the day was December 13th. And, I had a momentous decision to make in order to preserve my sanity. I had two options. A) Beat my head in by way of a dense brick wall, or B) Begin blogging.
I should back up a little because context is always a wonderful thing. So, I am as pale as a human can get. I am the result of an American Irish man marrying an English alien, who together had two daughters and then one more. I don’t know how much I can stress the whiteness of my skin. I always have to use SPF 50. I wear hats often because I don’t like the sensation of a burnt nose. The threat of skin cancer hangs over me like…something very dire and ominous. An optometrist told me once that my eyes had such little pigment (My response: “But…they’re blue…and not pink?”) that I would most certainly get glaucoma and die if I didn’t wear sunglasses whenever outside. It was the first time someone had insulted my eyes. Thus, I wear sunglasses even on cloudy days; you never know when glaucoma will strike. I have never been tan without the assistance of self-tanner. Whenever submitted to the sun’s UV wrath, my skin goes from white to red and then back to white. Like a candy cane but without the delicious taste of peppermint and replaced with the stench of aloe. Conclusion of context: I am very, very white. I am the Caucasianiest of Caucasians. It’s terrible, and I have a complete lack of street cred.
May the tale begin! I was sitting in German class with my delightfully eccentric German professor Herr at the helm. Now, I enjoyed German class a lot. I earned an A on all of my assignments, and we learned German in fun and innovative ways. For example, Herr wanted us to simultaneously learn German and appreciate how terrible being an American Marine was. So, we watched Full Metal Jacket dubbed in German but with the English subtitles since we were only an Intermediate German class. I had never watched the atrocities of Vietnam in a more whimsical manner. Another time, while translating fake German apartment listings, Herr turned one of them into a serial killer scenario, with a cannibal for a landlord. After which, Herr naturally began to discuss the coven of witches out by the airport.
Anyway, I was sitting in class, and there were only ten minutes left. The lesson veered off course from German grammar to the American Civil War. Eeexcellent.
Proceeding! I shared my aforementioned familial connection to the Civil War with Herr. His eyes grew round, and he smiled like I just said I could create cupcakes out of thin air. He asked me question after question until the class ended, then he asked me even more questions. I enjoy a good Civil War and Grandpa Cooney chat, but I kept nervously checking my wristwatch because I didn’t want the nun to whip me[2] for being late to Music History (yes, I go to a Catholic university…a discussion for another time). So we bid adieu and I went merrily on my way to Music History. Where I only got a slight glare from the nun; I received no lashings.[3]
The following German class, Herr handed me this book.
[1] I give you full permission to make elf jokes. Elves are magical.
[2] SURPRISE! I like to make nun corporal punishment jokes! Disclaimer: my nun professor never beat me, even though her vague exams metaphorically assaulted me frequently.
[3] Huzzah! An ongoing nun abuse joke!
I hadn’t taken a sip from my travel mug of coffee yet, and I couldn’t remember what color socks I was wearing let alone why I was being handed this book. I remember thinking three things: “I like that chief’s hat. General Custer was a douche bag, and I’m glad the Native Americans annihilated him. Why would I care enough about General Custer to read a book about him?”
As I looked up at Herr in a fog of bewilderment, he said with a knowing look, “Thought you might want to take a look at that. I found your ancestor.”
“My who?” I countered, trying to smile pleasantly.
“Your ancestor,” Herr repeated with great pomp and circumstance as if he were sharing the cure to Ebola with me. “A Dorman fought with General Custer. It says so in that book. Thought you would want to find out more about him.”
I honestly didn’t know what to say. Well, I think I did say something. I tried to gently correct him, but all of my statements came out like questions and gradually grew softer like the whisper of a hummingbird choking. “My Grandpa Cooney? He wasn’t a Dorman? He was a Cooney? Gettysburg? Irish shoemaker on the East Coast?”
All the while, Herr kept staring me down. His eyes were laser beams forcing his incorrect knowledge into my brain, making me start to doubt my own lineage.
So I finally said, “Yeah, sure I could check it out. You never know; my family name could’ve skipped ahead a couple of generations?”
Later on, I arrived to Music History early, so early that I was the only one in the classroom. The book on General Douche Bag made my purse considerably more cumbersome. At first, I tried to be a good student and review my notes for Music History. It was our third week learning about Gregorian chant though, so I immediately abandoned that. I took out Herr’s book and stared at the chief’s stovepipe hat on the front. I mean, what had I to lose? I quickly flipped to the index and saw “Dorman, Isaiah.” Huh, Isaiah. Pretty cool name, prophet-like even. Page 119. The nun came in then, and we bid each other a stiff morning greeting. She soon was absorbed in drinking from her water bottle, and I returned to my book. Page 119…
I found the page and eagerly began skimming to find the first mention of my “ancestor” Isaiah. From my peripheral vision, I saw the nun get up and leave the classroom; I suppose she needed to go say a quick prayer before class began. I returned my full attention to page… There he was: Isaiah Dorman. And the following was what I read.
“To handle the Sioux language, Custer had hired a tall, quiet black man named Isaiah Dorman, who had worked as an interpreter and courier for several years at Fort Rice. A former slave from New Orleans, Dorman had earned the respect of soldiers and civilians at the fort…”
As my fellow classmates started coming into the classroom, I was there all alone having a total conniption in my seat. I had never been in more danger of wetting my pants my entire adult life. It was still fairly early in the semester, so my fellow classmates didn’t know me that well. They thought I was having a seizure or something traumatizing due to my twitching and wheezing. Then, my friend came into the classroom, and I had to share my moment of hilarity with him.
Me: “GEW! I have the funniest thing EVER to tell you!!!”
But then of course, everyone was interested to find out why the slightly spastic girl was being particularly disruptive so early; the nun wasn’t in yet to keep me in line. So they grew increasingly quiet to listen into our conversation.
Me: “So, so my German professor. He gave me this book on my Grandpa Cooney. Oh right, my Grandpa Cooney was this leprechaun from Ireland that made shoes and fought at Gettysburg, so this book isn’t about him at ALL. So, apparently my teacher said that a Dorman fought with General Custer. General Custer: total douche, right? So, so, I just looked up the Dorman, whose name is Isaiah. And guess what??!!! It was a black man HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”
That’s when I noticed that everyone else in the classroom was dead quiet. They all were staring at me. Their expressions said in unison, “Racist.” Even Jesus hanging from the crucifix on the wall seemed to say, “Not cool. Not cool at all, Lizzie.” I immediately began to backtrack.
“I mean, nothing’s wrong with him being black. Um, African American? It’s just that I’m white. I mean I know some white people have African heritage, but I really don’t. Just look at me: complete pale face. I—I’m really British—I guess you had to be there.”
My friend gave me a confused smile as if to say, “Yes, that was slightly racist, but it’ll be okay.” The general hubbub picked up again. I realized then that my sense of humor could quite possibly be not at all funny and completely offensive to most folk.
Later on at my office job, I sent an email to my father, commonly known as Faajaaah, detailing the story of Isaiah Dorman. Faajaaah raised me therefore making him equally not funny and offensive, therefore I should receive some sort of positive response to my story. The following was his reply.
“I thought you knew that I was born a poor black child…”
I had another conniption in my cubicle, and the two other student aides stared at me. This would probably be a tidy little “The End” to the tale, but it’s not. I soon relegated the event to the back of my mind. Strange occurrences often happen to me, so I didn’t really see it as too far out of the ordinary. I never did read the book, and it just sat upon my desk collecting dust. I must admit I always had a little smile to myself whenever I saw it. Good ole Isaiah.
Next thing I knew, it was finals week. My German final started the showdown at 8:30 in the morning on a Monday. I had been struggling with a sore throat since the previous Thursday, which finally had blossomed into a horrendous cold. After waking up, I blearily made coffee, took cold medicine, and attempted to memorize a few more vocabulary words. I was all set to leave at 8:00, but then I remembered that I needed to return the book to Herr. After gazing one last time at the chief’s hat, I left my apartment and I went out to my car that was completely encased in a mound of snow. Suffice to say, I was running late to my German final.
The parking garage at school was filled and I had to park on the top level. My body refused to register both my coffee and my Dayquil, so I was trapped in a strange regurgitated waste energy aura. I wheezed my way to the building where my German final was. I tried to be quiet entering the testing room, but sadly, I burst in like a cowboy entering a saloon with his guns blazing. Everyone turned to stare at me while Herr merrily rang out, “Guten morgen!”
The test wasn’t particularly hard. I had trouble focusing, though, due to the mucus running out of my nose and my dry cough that sounded like a dying cygnet. During the test, I was in a perpetual cycle of self-loathing: I generally despise when people cough and blow his or her nose in public, polluting the common air with his or her infesting germs. I took so long agonizing over not blowing my nose too loudly that I was one of the last students in the room taking the test. The Dayquil had kicked in by then, and I was feeling particularly loose-limbed. Gathering my things and putting on my winter jacket was a truly out of body experience. I took out Herr’s book and, with my final exam; I went to the front of the room to hand everything in. I gave him the test with a dazed smile, and I awkwardly handed him the book back with a husky thanks and a snot-filled sniff. He held the book for a moment and then pressed the book back into my arms, while also holding my right hand. I didn’t know quite what to do, so I just stood there probably staring at him with a glazed over expression.
Now, my German isn’t fantastic, but I spent a semester abroad in Vienna, Austria. Therefore, I understand German much better than I can attempt to speak it. Herr never minded this defect of mine though. Much of the semester, he would chat away to me in German and I would smile and laugh in the correct places, sometimes treating us both to a disjointed German response. Next thing I knew, Herr was waxing poetically auf Deutsch as I listened in a Dayquil, tripped out state of mind.
“Now, Elisabeth, I want you to keep this book. Yes, I want you to have it. You see, whenever anyone asks you about your great American heritage, all you have to do is look your grandfather up in this book. You will tell the world about your Dorman grandfather who fought alongside General Custer. This book should be regarded with pride. In fact, this book should be your family heirloom and should always be used as the official family reference.”
He said this so genuinely and with such happiness that he was giving me the most wonderful of gifts that I couldn’t say, couldn’t do anything but smile. And then wipe my nose because it was beginning to drip. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness: complete despair for the intelligence of mankind, coupled with a fondness for Herr. And then, SH-BAM. Epiphany.
A) Beat my head in by way of a dense brick wall, or B) Begin blogging.
Then, Herr leaned over, clasped me in a hug, and kissed me on the cheek. In that moment, I thought three things, “I don’t think this is legal. I hope he doesn’t get sick. I need to get more juice from Target.” I then gave him a little pat on the back, wished him a good holiday season, and shuffled to the door. We shared one last “Aufwiedersehen”: me from the doorway and he from his teacher’s podium. I left.
Later, as I tottered through the aisles of Target still drugged out of my mind, I considered the psychological and skill honing benefits of starting a blog. And, hey, I already had a pretty dece idea for my first post. So, I chose blogging over certain death. Most importantly, I got an excellent deal on Tropicana orange juice. Huzzah!
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