Saturday, December 04, 2010
Some years later, a particularly accident-prone classmate of mine jumped into a hole behind the schoolhouse. Bang. Sprained ankle. We fished him out of that hole weeping and gnashing his teeth and rending his garments and lying in ashes and lamenting the sins of Israel. We brought him to the school clinic where the corpulent nurse (who, incidentally, had no sense of humor whatsoever) started bandaging his ankle.
“Don’t worry,” I pompously told both the nurse and my classmate, sounding like I had wisdom far beyond my years; wisdom gleaned from the foot of an ascetic wasting away in the hollow of a holy tree. “Don’t worry, the veins of his foot just got tangled somewhat.”
The humorless nurse looked at me and snorted, saying something particularly scathing. Something you don’t tell a six-year-old kid however stupid he sounds. I felt like I had the IQ of a planarian.
That fiasco was the first time it ever occurred to me that maybe my parents didn’t always know what the fuck they were talking about. It started me upon the path of questioning everything. Faith soon unraveled after that.