I’ve Become Miss Clavel

(a rough draft of an idea I’m developing)

As a little girl, the Madeline books by Ludwig Bemelmans were, for quite some time, unquestionably my favorite.  I have a Madeline doll, longed for a school uniform with a little navy jumper (and eventually got my wish), and my mom made a red jacket for me to match my doll.  I wear it with a wide four-year-old grin in one Christmas picture, holding my baby sister close and tight, joy and love written across both our faces.

I remember loving how Genevieve rescued Madeline from the Seine, and how I adored the antics that did always seem to get Madeline in trouble with adults.  And yet it wasn’t until I re-read the book today in a return to The Magic School Primer that I noticed something at first unsettling and then quite wonderful: I always empathized (or wanted to, anyway), with spunky, brave Madeline who explored and wondered at the world.  And I guess in some ways that’s who I sort of wish I was, intrepid and silly both.

But I’m not.  I’ve most definitely become Miss Clavel, and really, I was all along.  I love my stories of feisty, spirited, brave heroines, don’t get me wrong.  But that’s simply not who I am.  I’m not Merida.  I’m not Anna.  I’m not Madeline.  I’m not Anne.

I’m Miss Clavel.  I am there to catch Madeline when Genevieve pulls her from the water, to make her a cup of chamomile and tuck her in and scold her.  I am a teacher, an adult, a caretaker.

But here’s what I didn’t remember, a little secret: Miss Clavel breaks the rules, too.  She isn’t as perfect, as rigid as she first seems.

The Trustees, including Lord Cucuface (best name ever, and used to make me laugh over and over), show up for an inspection and immediately send Genevieve, heroic dog though she is, out of the home.  Lord Cucuface even mutters something about the dog’s uncertain origins that sounds vaguely racist, like a judgement of people more than pets.

Miss Clavel cannot stop what happens at that moment, but when little Madeline announces they can waste no time with tears over the loss of their dog, Miss Clavel doesn’t forbid the girls from searching for the dog.  No.  She ignores the Trustee’s directive and takes the girls through Paris to find Genevieve.  They don’t succeed that day.

And then Miss Clavel wakes in the night, turns on the light, says, “Something is not right!”

And she opens the door to find Genevieve waiting just outside, and welcomes her in.

Miss Clavel isn’t the strict schoolmarm to rebel against. She’s the secret rebel, the one who listens to her intuition in the middle of the night and who won’t accept rules that don’t fit, that aren’t right for her twelve little girls in two straight lines.  And, in doing so, she allows her twelve little girls to be brave and courageous and a little foolhardy at times.  She does the same, only it goes unnoticed.

It is, after all, the quiet ones you have to watch out for.

23 acts of avoidance

1. the laundry must be put in and sorted now (i hate laundry)
2. i should purge unnecessary decorative objects
3. this is definitely the right time to tidy up
4. i’m even going to get rid of the “how to simplify” lists i made before i ran out of life-changing magic steam
5. i definitely need to snuggle with the dog.  i’ll write on the computer.
6. no, i can’t write on the computer.  what i have to say isn’t for the impersonal keys.
7. i really need to clean the kitchen
8. oh, i’ll clean the fridge too!
9. almost done sweeping.  this is a mess.
10. oh, now it’s time to cook dinner.
11. i’ll write in my journal as i wait for the water to boil
12. writing in the journal is too slow
13. oh, hey, i’ll a sloppy poem about avoiding writing.  perfect.
14. my handwriting is awful
15. truly awful. seriously, you’re supposed to have better handwriting if you’re a teacher
16. ugh.  these journal pages are ugly
17. oh! idea! must scribble it down!
18. look at the dog…wait, what is he chewing?
19. oh, it’s a toy
20. ok, dinner is ready
21. okay, maybe i’ll write on the computer after dinner
22. i’ll do the dishes first
23. it’s nine o’clock?!

at least my house is clean.

she who prays

That’s the title of a book I got at the library a few days ago.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve wanted to relearn prayer.  It used to come so naturally.  In my bedroom as a teen, I had an old folding table set up with candles.  I kept a lighter handy: not because I had taken up smoking (fact: smoke of any sort makes me cough), but because I’m horrible with matches.  I lit each candle as I prayed, quite literally on my knees some nights, and others just sitting on my bed nearby.

Each candle was for a person in my prayers: the Sunday school teacher with cancer, the family who’d lost a husband and sister in a freak accident, my friend who was laid low by depression, my other friend who grew up too fast, my cousins, my friend’s friends, my sister’s friends, a woman in my mom’s Bible study…so many people.

And I absolutely believed every word I said.  I absolutely meant it.  Eventually I put the candles away when my fear of fire/having to explain myself/shift toward laying in bed and praying until I fell asleep took precedent, but I prayed every single night.

And then, near the end of high school, I suddenly felt like my words were stopped at the wall next to my bed.

And although I pray irregularly but often still, it’s simply not the same.  My prayers come out as clumsy poems or art journal entries.  They come out as please please please  and thank you thank you thank you and what do i do?

(to be continued)