Joe Meno Isn't Shakespeare

       When I was little, my mother used to meet me at gymnastics practice at the park and walk me home. On one such journey home, when I was nine if I recall correctly, she spent most of the walk ripping the head off me about something. It took me rather a long time to figure out just what exactly I had been (quite wrongly, might I add) accused of doing. Being old school off the boat Irish, my mother couldn’t quite bring herself to get to the heart of the matter. The matter being that I was apparently reading pornographic material that I had checked out of the library. So removed is my mother from the subject of sex that she will say, “she went to the hospital to get the baby” instead of the more customary “she went to the hospital to have the baby.” So it took me a while to figure out my perceived crime.

       I had been reading Summer of My German Soldier. Sibling #1, ten years my senior, found the book and noticed that it said on the inside cover, “Adult Fiction”, in reference to its library classification. As he would be wholly unfamiliar with the workings of a library and wouldn’t, therefore, understand that a library would not allow a nine year old to check out porn, he came to the rather brilliant conclusion that I was reading porn. And yes, I am referring to the same Summer of My German Soldier that graces many a required grammar school reading list.

       Had I not been so flabbergasted that I could get in trouble for reading a classic, I might have reminded my mother of the day that I had arrived home from school to find that my bed no longer had a mattress. My parents had apparently thought it would be a good idea to give Sibling #1 my mattress for his van (a 1970s cargo van with blacked out rear windows). ‘So that he and his friends would have someplace to sit.’ Never mind that the only friend he hung around with in his van was named Lisa. And never mind that what I could only imagine my mattress was being used for would surely corrupt the mind of an innocent nine year old far more than reading the very much non-pornographic Summer of My German Soldier.

       Regardless of how I tried to defend myself, it was useless. I was nine and reading porn because Sibling #1, the first born and only male, had thus spoken. So I should have known that it just doesn’t pay to get into a conversation about what constitutes literature. But I clearly hadn’t had enough contact with humans over the age of five as I eagerly jumped headlong into a conversation with a group I had already determined to be, at the very least, really annoying.
I try not to be too judgmental (alright, who am I kidding?), but in their case, they really were what they looked like - - cliquish bitches. But surely I was the bigger fool for attempting to engage them in conversation. And about literature of all things! But I just couldn’t help myself when I heard them discussing Joe Meno’s Hairstyles of the Damned, a book that I had just read and liked so much that I actually went out and bought it. And then thought it would be the perfect birthday present for a friend so I bought her a copy, too. Despite the porn incident, I am still a frequent user of the Chicago Public Library, so the fact that I bought two copies of the book is a testament to how much I enjoyed reading it.

       So when I heard one of the clique girls mention the book, I turned towards their little group and said with enthusiasm, “Oh, I just read that book. Isn’t it great?” My question was met with an uncomfortable silence. I should mention that I am having this conversation on the sidelines of a soccer field where my child is participating in a ninety minute soccer camp along with their children. This was the final day of the five day camp. And I never much liked the looks of the little clique - - all huddled together every day drinking coffee and eating Starbucks pastries, dressed in expensive athletic apparel as though they were the ones participating in the soccer camp. They weren’t a very friendly group. You’d think after five days of standing around with the same group of people, a friendly smile or hello wouldn’t be out of the question. Apparently, being a cliquish bitch was too physically demanding to allow for any friendliness on their part. Perhaps that would explain their inclination to dress in athletic apparel that looked as if it never actually was used in any athletic fashion.

       Finally, after looking at me as if I was quite insane, one of the clique actually responds. It is the martyr mom teacher to be that speaks. I know she is going to be a teacher because she has spent the past five days whining about how difficult her education classes are and how she routinely has to get up at five in the morning to read. "Oh,” she says to me, in a subtle like any of us really cares what you think voice that I can visualize her using on her students, “did you like that book? I guess maybe it’s okay. But I have to read it for a literature course!” She emphasizes the word “literature” as if that explains everything.

       “Oh, right,” I say, in a serious tone. “I thought it was a great book. But I suppose Joe Meno isn’t Shakespeare. I mean, sure they both write about a universal human experience,” they continue to look at me in disbelief. I’m not sure if it is because of my comments, or if it is because of my appearance. Perhaps both. I am holding a slightly moldy bike water bottle in my hand instead of the requisite cup of Starbucks. (I noticed it was moldy in the morning as I filled it, but didn’t have time to find a different bottle. And, as it had probably been moldy for some time, I figured it hadn’t done me any harm so why worry about it.) I am not wearing an expensive athletic ensemble, but rather my summer running outfit which consists of ill fitting shorts and a t-shirt that makes me look like I am a box and not a female. My hair is wind blown and wild and I probably smell bad as I had recently finished running laps around the soccer fields. Quite frankly, I would likely give me looks, too. Nice people, though, wouldn’t be so obvious in their disdain. Undeterred, I continue, “But I guess, yeah, you’d probably much prefer reading Shakespeare at five in the morning. Shakespeare can be pretty hard to get through and Hairstyles of the Damned was a lot of fun to read. I can see what you mean about it not being literature.”

       Martyr mom teacher to be looks confused at first, but then smiles when she interprets my comments to mean that I agree with her. “I know, right?” she actually says. I desperately want to reply, “as if!”, but cannot, surprisingly, allow myself to be so rude. At this point, happy that I am on her side, martyr mom teacher to be now confidently plants her hands on her hips and begins a soliloquy which basically just restates her position that it is truly awful to have to read good fiction in a literature class. The why questions begin in earnest in my brain. Why did I have to jump into their conversation? Why didn’t I learn when I was nine? Why does this horrible person have to become a teacher?

       Martyr mom teacher to be, who has now moved on to the subject of how the Meno book cannot be literature because there is a kid with a mohawk on the cover of it, looks like she once hung out in the back of cargo vans with blacked out windows and a mattress. Since they hadn’t read the Meno book, her clique mates are happy to now be discussing something they can have an opinion on - - mohawks. I simply cannot be a part of this conversation any longer. “Excuse me,” I say to the martyr mom teacher to be, “You seem really familiar to me. Your name isn’t Lisa, by chance, is it?”

       They all stare at me again. “No.” This is all she says. I imagine she does not tell me what her name actually is as she doesn’t want me to think we are now friends.

       “Oh, sorry,” I smile. “I must be thinking of someone else.” And I do think of someone else as I walk away. Many someone elses. I can’t help but to think of her poor future students. But I feel better knowing that the majority of them will be smarter than her and maybe a few of them will be creative enough to have a little fun at her expense without her even realizing it.