Photography: Alcoholic? Vision and scenes of Hell! by antwerpenR

I come from a long line of alcoholics. Both sides of my family, for as many generations back as we can remember. Sometimes it was called Alzheimer’s, or senility, or dementia, but more likely it was simple alcoholism.

When I was maybe 10, my Boy Scout troop decided to camp for the weekend at a local state park. This was supposed to be a dads-and-sons kinda thing. My stepfather was mean and decrepit, so my mother decided very early that he wasn’t going to do it. My grandfather was much more outdoorsy, so mom asked him to go with me.

We packed everything up, and loaded into the Scoutmaster’s van. My friend David came along, as he was enjoying his passing fancy with Boy Scouts (I was much more hard-core for a lot longer period).

We arrived at the park, and packed our gear in to our camping spot. Not being very experienced, it looked like a long hike to me. Later, I discovered it was just a camping spot with mowed grass, like every other state park in the country.

We set up our tent, and my grandfather went inside and laid down his sleeping bag and gear. Then he went off to the campfire, as some of the other dads were gathering there while the boys goofed around.

David and I unpacked our gear, and set up our sleeping spots in the tent. We were horsing around like young boys do, and David pushed me, and I fell onto my grandfather’s sleeping bag. I felt a hard lump under my back, and rolled over. Hidden under the sleeping bag was an unopened bottle of gin.

The tent was dark, so I had to hold it up to see what it was. Of course, that meant David saw what it was also. I remember feeling shame and embarrassment, like our secret was out. David didn’t know quite what to say, so I put it back where I found it, and we quietly finished setting up our beds. We returned to the campfire, and nothing was said about it again.

There was always doubt about the drinking problems of my relatives. If you asked too many questions, you were making a big deal out of nothing, or you misunderstood something, or took a conversation out of context. The answer was never “Your grandfather is an alcoholic,” it was always something else. There was always an explanation.

Taking a bottle of gin to a Boy Scout campout didn’t make my grandfather an alcoholic. But it did confirm the pattern that was weaving it’s way just under the surface of my childhood. My grandfather was a large influence on my life, and I loved him dearly. In some ways he was like the father I never had. But he also smelled of old-man and gin. And that’s a smell that still makes me gag, 30 years later.

When I was in 4th grade, my entire class had to take a state-mandated reading comprehension test.

So we all sat at our little desks, pulled out our #2 pencils, and the teacher handed out the booklet, it was maybe 15 pages.

I sat across from a kid, we’ll call him Mike. Mike was the runt of our class; very small, even for 9 year-olds. He was also a severe sugar addict. He wore a vest like Marty McFly in Back To The Future, as they were all the rage back then. He had ripped open the lining on the inside, near the zipper on the bottom, so he had massive inside pockets. He hid ridiculous amounts of candy there, and pecked at it all day long. His day was one big sugar-high. Looking back, I feel mighty sad for Mike, but at the time, I didn’t like him at all. We didn’t get along.

So, once the test was handed out, I began it in earnest. I blasted through it pretty quick. So quick in fact, that I was the first to stand up and put it on my teacher’s desk. Mike watched me, and then jumped up, pointed his finger at me in a scene right out of a movie, and said “Miz B! (Miz B was our teacher) He cheated! He just guessed at all the answers so he was done first!”

Miz B called me back to her desk, and ripped the booklet in half right in front of me. The class exploded with laughter, and Mike had a smug look on his face. I was crestfallen. It was a betrayal by a teacher, and by my fellow students. Now that I think about it, there were many incidents such as this that eventually determined the pecking order that we were bound to follow. This also taught me that being smart isn’t desireable, following the herd is far more acceptable. Being smart is embarrassing, and should be hid, or you’ll be accused of being conceited, or “too big for your britches.”

I returned to my desk, with another booklet in my hand, and started the test again. The other students began turning their tests in, and I worked on my second copy. Then Miz B called me back to her desk again. The torn halves of my test were sitting on her desk, and she was paging through them. I remember it being funny that in order to turn to the next page, she had to flip 2 pages (top half and bottom half).

She looked over a few more pages, and then turned to me and asked if I had cheated. At this point, I was trying to keep from crying, because wasn’t one moment of embarrassment enough? Now she had to just keep rubbing it in more? I told her “No, I’ve never cheated. And how would I anyway?”

She turned a few more pages, and then said that I didn’t have to complete the second test, the first test was ok, and I should go sit quietly in my seat while the other kids finished.

The results of the test were mailed to my parents. I missed 2 questions on the entire 15 pages of reading comprehension, and I finished 10 minutes before any of the other kids in my class. I never told my parents what happened, because I thought they certainly wouldn’t believe that I hadn’t cheated somehow.

Years later, as an adult, I happened to see Miz B in a grocery store. I wouldn’t even have recognized her, but my companion did. We introduced ourselves, and when she remembered me, she couldn’t even look me in the eye. It was a very uncomfortable conversation for her, and she looked ready to run away.

I don’t bear any ill will towards Miz B. It was an unbelievable score, especially considering the small amount of time. I know she knows what she did was wrong. That’s why she was so uncomfortable.

Last week, my 7 year-old nephew was accused of cheating on a standardized test. He scored at levels several grades higher than his current one. His teacher has fought with his mother regarding putting the boy on medication for ADHD, and said something to the effect of “No student with behaviour problems like his could have scored that high without cheating.”

I know the boy is scary-smart, because he reads billboards to me when I drive with him, and he is able to sound out words he’s never seen before, and doesn’t even know the definition of.

It’s odd and frustrating being on this side of the issue. I don’t know what to do for my nephew. But I know what it’s like to be punished for being smart.