Aug. 5: "B'' Material

The streak is over. It ended at roughly 11:15 a.m. on Wednesday, July 24, although I wasn’t aware that it had ended until a day later.

The streak to which I refer was the unblemished march of A’s since my return to school almost 30 years after I had dropped out of college. I was running the table: Geography, Journalism Ethics (yes, there really is a class on journalism ethics, believe it or not), Mass Media Law, Spanish I, Public Speaking, U.S. History Since 1945, Mass Media in Society. A’s in all of them.

In my mind, those A’s that marched so proudly in some grand procession of perfection stirred in me some dreamer’s belief that my life could amount to more than a cautionary tale.

And then came Wednesday and my Final in Spanish II. For the entire term, I had maintained an A average. But on Wednesday, I was far from an A student. Here is the weird part, though. After I finished the test, I figured I had done fairly well – maybe a 92 or 93, certainly no worse than mid-80s.

I was already counting this un-hatched chicken, you might say.

I went on line a day later, mainly just to stare with great satisfaction at my grades for the term. There was the expected “A’’ in my Mass Media in Society Class, but there was this odd symbol next to Spanish II. It read “B’’.

“B’’

That’s what it said. “B’’ which is short for “Be serious. You’re not kidding anybody, loser.’’

I emailed my professor to ask what I had scored on the final. He responded that I had made a 77. My face went flush with embarrassment. Really? A 77? Pathetic, by far the worst test score I had made since returning to school.

And so I got a “B’’ for the class.

I know what you are thinking, of course. You are thinking that I am overreacting. Those who I have told about my “B’’ have rushed to point out that a “B’’ is hardly a mark of failure.

I wish I could see it that way, I really do.

But when I see that “B,’’ it says to me, “second place.’’ It says, “Good, but not the best.’’ It says “You’ve fallen short of your goal. Again. Like always.’’

Second place is pretty good, sometimes.

But sometimes, second place is awful. I’ve come in second in three relationships and the rejection is more painful each time. The last one almost ruined me. In fact, I wonder if it hasn’t ruined me. I am a joke to her and the “winner’’ she plans to marry in a few months, I realize.

There is a lady in my life now – a smart, beautiful, stunning woman - that deserves to be loved. But I am afraid to go there, afraid that it will end in another second place, no matter how promising and hopeful the prospects seem to be right now.

It always ends that way. In Spanish II, I was an “A’’ student every day - until the last day. Then I was a bum and it didn’t matter if I was an “A’’ student before.

It always ends like that. And each time, I shrink a little and the light becomes a bit more dim. Today, I’m feeling around in the shadows.

This morning, I emailed an old acquaintance, Charlie Mitchell. I knew Charlie back when he was the editor at the Vicksburg paper. Charlie is now an assistant dean at the Ole Miss journalism school. I wrote to him, explaining about how I had been in the newspaper business for a long time until I went to prison for DUI. I wrote that I was working hard to redeem myself and asked for his advice on whether I should pursue a Masters in Journalism at Ole Miss or, instead, stay at State and get a Masters in English. My plan is (was?) to teach English Comp and/or Journalism at the university level.

Charlie wrote back to tell me that either path would be OK. He also said that I might face some obstacles.

He wrote:

“In the big picture, all colleges, public and private, manage their image with unprecedented intensity because they rely so heavily on donations and good will. The knee jerk at some will be not to run the risk of a headline reading, "Ex-con teaching our little children." As a journalist, you know the story could just as easily be about focus and redemption. The challenge is to find a school willing to take that risk.’

There’s nothing inherently wrong about that response, of course.

On the other hand, it wasn’t something I didn’t already realize.

In reality, I wrote to my old acquaintance hoping he would say something like, “Come on up to Ole Miss! We’ll help! We’ll make it work, pull some strings, give you a hand!’’

It is not what he said, of course, and the impression I got from the email was akin to what you encounter on dating sites when a person who isn’t interested sends out the standard “Good Luck in Your Search’’ message.

One of the reasons I came back to Mississippi was the naïve belief that there might be some people here who, being in a position to help me, might show some compassion.
Clearly, I was wrong. I suspect Charlie sees me as damaged goods, someone unworthy of anything but condescension. I know damn well I’d be the best student in that graduate program, but clearly, I represent some sort of “risk.’’ I wish someone who feels that way would actually tell me what “risk’’ they think I represent. But it’s no use to argue.

I’ve learned a little about a lot of things since returning to school – a little geography, a little history, a very little Spanish. But what I’ve learned most of all is that you can be an “A’’ student every day, but that doesn’t matter if you blow the Finals.

Sometimes a life is defined by its worst moment and every effort to escape it is an exercise in self-delusion. You are forever viewed as a “risk.’’ It doesn’t really matter how sorry you are for your mistake, how hard you have worked to overcome it. People love second chances, as long as they’re not the ones providing them.

The women I have loved and lost would probably tell you that, too. They would probably tell you I’m a good person. But, you know, just not good enough.

I’m just a “B’’ kind of guy, I guess.