Scarlet G

Naughty, willful, childish disobedience, is usually a luxury. One in which I didn’t often participate. My family was too complicated to say no to lima beans or refuse bedtime. I didn’t have a bedtime. It was my job to stay the out of the way at home.

At school, everything changed when I discovered I could make people laugh. It quickly became clear. Humor would carry me through.

So, it did, until one day when it didn’t.

            11th grade Advanced English with Mrs. Dean. Honors English, of course.

                  We were reading The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne. I learned a lot about implied themes and metaphor, but the plot was maddening. Pious townsfolk. Reverend Dimsdale’s hypocrisy. An innocent child. Branding someone for giving into desire.

                  To escape that world’s oppression, and have a little fun, I took red tape and put a huge A on my shirt. I turned my jacket into a baby bundle and carried it into class, speaking fluent puritan.

“Fair morning Goody Dean. I pray you’re having a blessed day.”

                  Eye roll.

“Yes, Greg. Always.”

                  “Prithee good fortune continues, and we learn much from the bounty of your well-planned lessons.”

                  Totally obnoxious - as only 1980s teenagers could be.

                  Mrs. Dean told me to stay after class.

                  Never, good town folk, had I been kept after class. I was humbled, and thrown.

The bell rang. 31 classmates filed past me. Mrs. Dean shut the door.

Her heels clicked against the asbestos tile.

She dragged a chair toward me and silently sat down.

I knew her words would be considered and deliberate.

“Triggs, you’re not going to pass my class on charm and being funny.”

I felt vulnerable. Called out. Seen in a way I seldom had been up to that point.

  When people are laughing, they usually don’t see the damaged person standing right in front of them. The joy of laughter creates becomes a smokescreen the comedian loves.

Maybe they’re a little needy.

In need.

Scared to be known.

When I finally felt composed, I said, “I’ll think about what you said.”

Mrs. Dean said, “Greg, you’re capable of more. Don’t hide your substance.”

I kept my word and thought about what she said. I thought about it a lot.

Processing my feelings became a challenge. Became a goal. Became hope.

Became change.

Years later I was invited to come back home to perform at the Capitol Theater, a grand old movie palace where I had seen Grease 6 times. The theater had been renovated and now included live performance.

So much family, so many friends, came to see the kid who’d moved to NY. The kid they’d supported to on his way to becoming whatever he now was. Lovely, kind and generous people. It was singular, and wonderful. I hope you’ve all had a similar homecoming.

I got to town a few days early to see family & of course, bask. I went to the ice cream parlor I worked at in high school to get a scoop of my favorite flavor and lick the past. I walked in, the bell on the door rang, and I heard a familiar voice coming from one of the café tables I’d wiped down a million times.

“Greg?”

“Oh, my goodness.  Mrs. Dean? Hello.” A smile. A breath.  “This is my husband Matt.”

Mrs. Dean’s eyes registered no surprise. They sparkled.

I quickly told the story of landing on her naughty list.

Mrs. Dean, who I was told to now call Susan, smiled. “You remembered? Well, that’s today’s victory! What brings you to town?”

“I’m here to be charming and funny. Go figure.”

I offered Mrs. Dean tickets. Real life interfered. She had plans and couldn’t come.

Too bad.

The show that night was great, in part because never will I know an audience better. Only on my wedding day have I been surrounded by that much collective love and laughter.

Laughter which can heal.

Laughter which at its best is smart and truthful.

Laughter which if you’re lucky enough to have the right teachers, has substance.