OTTER GUILT

OTTER GUILT
Copyright Ruth Lampert January 2011 (rev)


In the fourth grade of Darwin Elementary School in Chicago, Ill, two movies (on reels; VCRs were in the distant future) played a significant role in my life. The first had something to do with weather – specifically, cold weather, a topic Chicagoans know about. There was a still shot of a bush, or maybe a small tree, its round shape with irregular protuberances completely covered with pristine snow. After the film the teacher, a slim young woman with wavy dark hair and smiling eyes, and the school principal, a tall, dignified young man dressed always in blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie who visited the class frequently, discussed the movie with us. The principal commented on the beauty of the snow-covered bush and asked, “Did that remind anyone of anything else?”
My hand shot up – I was so happy he had asked!

“Yes! It looks just like a kellyflower!”

The grownups smiled at each other, in the way of loving parents whose dear child has just made an especially adorable comment. “Isn’t she just the limit!” they seemed to be saying.

They are in love! I thought. They are going to get married and have a family of their own, just like in the movies! (the ones shown in the theaters, not the educational ones shown in school.)

“You mean ‘cauliflower,’ Ruth,” my hero said in his deep soft voice. (If Teacher wasn’t in love with him, I was.) “Yes, that is exactly what it looked like to me too!”

I had assumed the resemblance was obvious to everyone, just as
everyone I knew said “kellyflower.” But apparently he and I shared an imagination unmatched by the other students or even by Teacher.
Heady stuff for a smitten fourth grader…

The second movie that proved to be significant in my life was about otters.
I was enchanted by the sleek, darling, playful creatures. I wanted to join them in the ocean (which I too have loved all my life) and frolic and duck and dive and be warmed by the sun and the company of my playmates.

The principal wasn’t there that day, so I was unable to impress him. Teacher instructed us to write something about what we had seen, and I wrote a piece titled, straightforwardly, “The Otter.” I reported what I had seen on the screen and heard from the relentlessly cheerful narrator. I made no mention of the feeling of joyful kinship the film evoked; I was romantic but not entirely unrealistic, and understood that personal reactions were not what fourth grade essays were about.

Again, my writing talent was “reinforced,” as we say nowadays. Teacher smiled her lovely smile at me (I think I was a little in love with her, too) as she announced that my report was so good she was sending it to the school newspaper.

When the paper came out and I saw, in print, what all my world could see:

The Otter
By
Ruth Tauber

I was hooked. My words and my name in print! It was my first by-line, although I didn’t know that’s what it was called.

The only fly in this syrup of self-importance was a vague, nagging sense of guilt. After all, I had done nothing more than repeat what I had seen and heard, and that didn’t measure up to the kinds of stories I loved to read. Only later did I learn about journalism, and reviewing; at the time I felt vaguely that the story wasn’t really mine, that I hadn’t truly earned the credit. I wondered uneasily if I might be some kind of a fraud.

Since that time I’ve been on both sides of the therapy couch, where guilt is a juicy, ubiquitous topic. Freud considered its roots to be in sexual soil; maybe. My friend and colleague Cara Garcia once noted: “there are those childhood fantasies of wreaking wonderful, ghastly horrible revenge on enemies, including but not limited to younger siblings.”

Maybe it’s all true. Maybe my fourth grade guilt was just a manifestation of one or another or all of the guilt brought forward from early childhood.
And maybe there is another, existential guilt, one that is somehow linked to the creative impulse, a self-questioning that walks with the need to transform, as when I earned the principal’s praise by perceiving a snow-covered bush as a “kellyflower.” Just as these days, when I travel down Overland Avenue on my way to the neighborhood library, the carefully trimmed trees lining the street look to me so exactly like broccoli stalks that in my mind it is Broccoli Boulevard.

Another time I will explore the subject of The Foodie as Writer. For now, let’s fast-forward to high school where I am in the Journalism class (still secretly considering it inferior to “creative” writing) and working on the staff of the Von Steuben Journal, my sole extra-curricular activity. Also on staff is Albert Rosenthal, bright, funny, audacious, and, I assume, next in line to be Editor-in-Chief.

“Little Moron” jokes were all the rage at the time. (This genre of “stupidity is hilarious” was followed not so long ago by Polish and Blond jokes.) It was quite acceptable then to be funny about retardation, but not about anything having to do with body parts, functions, or desires.

Standing guard over this journalistic purity is the English teacher and Journal advisor, Miss Cummings: small, round, grey-hair-in-a-bun, a nice lady, a good teacher, whose small sharp eyes could catch any hint of impropriety before it got into print.

Except for this joke which Albert manages to sneak in:
“Did you hear about the depressed little moron who got his face slapped for feeling low?”

Miss Cumming is furious. Albert is in her office for a long time, and emerges looking chastened until he is out of her range and gives a big wink to his followers.

I understand that it was because of this incident that Albert is passed over as Editor-in-Chief. That position goes to me, an honor tarnished by the old otter-guilt: of course I had been chosen by default and not by true merit.

Flash forward again. I have traveled from California to Chicago to attend the 50-year class reunion. Some people are total strangers to me, but I recognize Albert at once by his impish expression. We do the reunion things (laugh, hug, do you have kids? grandkids?) and I tell him I’ve always felt a little guilty about becoming Journal Editor when he really deserved it and was passed over because of the prevailing puritanical standards.

He gives me a puzzled look.

“What are you talking about? Everyone knew you were going to be the next Editor. You were the obvious and best choice. I was funny, but I wasn’t Editor material. You were. ”

I was?
Shades of deMaupassant’s “The Necklace.”

Writing has helped me to work it all through, and I am ready now for that shining moment when some prestigious prize is bestowed upon me. Poised and gracious, I will deliver an acceptance speech of rare brevity and honesty. I’ll simply say,
“I worked hard for this and I deserve it. Thank you for noticing.”