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xaaraCut for massive quantities of Youth Orchestra-related rantage seasoned with a light sprinkling of bad language and marinated in sarcasm.
I am so angry I can barely type.
On Saturday, after the last Youth Orchestra practice I was going to attend, I pulled my teacher into an empty classroom and told him I wouldn't be coming back, that I was going to play the concert the next day and then leave the program. He was nice and sympathetic; he listened to my reasons and put up shabby and halfhearted counterarguments. In fact, he was so nice about it that I dropped my stupid "I have too much other stuff to do" pretense and told him that I was no longer interested in dancing with Ms. Shulte (the Executive Director) and her minions.
"I don't like the political situation," I said. "And I feel like I'm doing all of the work while they're getting paid seventy grand a year for sitting around." I stopped for a moment to size him up, then added, wryly, "Besides, Ms. Shulte hates me and the feeling's pretty mutual."
He grinned at me and said, "That's always the way it works, Carmen."
I laughed. "Whatever. So, we're good?"
"We're good."
We shook hands, he pushed the door open for me, and we walked down the hall, side by side.
Today, Ms. Shulte called me. She called at about 1545, so I didn't pick up the phone because there's no way I could've gotten home this quickly from school and I didn't want to have one of those "No, I wasn't skipping third--I had an appointment" conversations with the counselor. After listening to her message, which said only that she wanted to talk to me and to call her back, I picked up the phone and dialed her number.
She picked up on the first ring. (Hint: people who pick up on the first ring don't have enough to do with their lives.)
"This is Carmen, calling for Ms. Shu--"
"Hello, Carmen," she said, cutting me off. "I just talked to your teacher, Mr. W?"
Oh fuck, I thought.
"He said something--well, let me first say that I love you and really think you've done a lot in helping with the program." Love. She said I love you, just like that, like she's never insulted me or belittled me or put me in rock/hard place situations.
"Gee, thanks," I said, as unsarcastically as possible. I didn't say any of the other next-line candidates bouncing around in my head, such as We've only been dating for a few weeks--I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment or You mean this in a strictly platonic sense, right? or Nice line--wanna fuck?, the last of which is a variation on the best pickup line ever, as related by J. Anyway.
"It's just that Mr. W told me--and I found this hard to believe--told me that you were considering not returning to the program this Saturday." As if I hadn't already made clear my intention to quit. As if I would be gone for a week, then realize my grievous mistake and come groveling back. I realized she was speaking again and tuned in to hear, "He said that one of your reasons for leaving us was that you thought I didn't like you."
You'd like that, wouldn't you? I thought. You'd like it if I said outright that I hated you. So, as is my tactic with all adults who find it amusing to torment younger members of their programs, I did exactly what she could not be anticipating. "That's not an issue," I said. "I just felt that I was perpetually performing your responsibilities--and the responsibilities of the personnel you'd hired--and had to get out of the way in order for you to step up to the task of running the program without my interference." (Have I ever mentioned that cool rage makes me wonderfully articulate?)
She sputtered a little and went silent. I let the silence stretch--I sure as hell wasn't going to be the next one to speak.
"Oh," she said finally. "Is the problem Malcolm and Thomas?"
Malcolm and Thomas--the two percussionists in my section, the ones who can't fucking play--were, admittedly, part of the problem. "Not really," I said. "I'm sure they'll be able to cover all of the mallet parts in my absence." That, of course, was just to rub in her face that fact that they have no idea how to play the mallet parts; could not, in fact, play said parts if their relatively worthless lives depended on them.
"Well then, what is it?"
"I have other commitments," I said. "They don't allow me to spend my Saturdays and Sundays supervising large sections of the Youth Orchestra. I've been looking into paying jobs, like yours."
Either incredibly stupid or incredibly impervious to direct, petty, and rather cutting insults, Ms. Shulte persisted, "If Malcolm and Thomas weren't in the program, would you consider staying? You're our best percussionist."
I barely managed to keep from laughing outright. She was offering to trade them for me. Fucking trade members of the YO away for the right to keep me as her personal slave.
"Thank you," I said, "but no."
Another awkward silence, this one broken by rustling papers at her end. "I'm afraid I don't understand, then," Ms. Shulte tried at last. "You've said all the reasons Mr. W cited aren't true."
"I can't possibly know what he told you were my reasons, but I can assure you that they are completely legitimate, have to do with other--more important--commitments, and are none of your concern, though I'm glad you're worried enough about your program to ask me about them."
By this time, I was enjoying myself, coming up with retorts that became at once more respectful and more incisive. The conversation continued like this for another five minutes. I prided myself on my use of vocabulary: I managed to include "picayune," "dogmatic," "pernicious," and "puerile," among others, in some truly beautiful sentences. My English teacher would've been proud.
At long length, Ms. Shulte gave up. "I realize you have other commitments, and I'm glad you're responsible like this," she said. "I have three kids, and I know senior year is hard." (She'd kept bringing up that fact that she'd given birth to children as if that would somehow make her more human in my eyes. All it did was force me to come up with ridiculous scenarios in which someone would've been desperate enough to have sex with her.) "If you ever need a recommendation..."
"I'll know who to call," I said, mentally singing Ghostbusters! "Thank you for your extreme level-headedness."
She went on another tangent about how I'd contributed to the program, how they'd miss me, and how she was sorry to see "my best percussionist" go.
"Thanks again," I told her. "I have to go, but I appreciated your call," for making my day that much more entertaining.
"Thank you," she said, after the fashion of radio talk show interviewees.
I hung up the phone furious, but now that I've written this, I think I might've mistaken my extreme high spirits for anger. Or at least, the high I get from winning a debate. Most of me hopes I'll never see her again, that she won't try to call our house in the future.
A small, sadistic, rebellious part hopes she will.
I am so angry I can barely type.
On Saturday, after the last Youth Orchestra practice I was going to attend, I pulled my teacher into an empty classroom and told him I wouldn't be coming back, that I was going to play the concert the next day and then leave the program. He was nice and sympathetic; he listened to my reasons and put up shabby and halfhearted counterarguments. In fact, he was so nice about it that I dropped my stupid "I have too much other stuff to do" pretense and told him that I was no longer interested in dancing with Ms. Shulte (the Executive Director) and her minions.
"I don't like the political situation," I said. "And I feel like I'm doing all of the work while they're getting paid seventy grand a year for sitting around." I stopped for a moment to size him up, then added, wryly, "Besides, Ms. Shulte hates me and the feeling's pretty mutual."
He grinned at me and said, "That's always the way it works, Carmen."
I laughed. "Whatever. So, we're good?"
"We're good."
We shook hands, he pushed the door open for me, and we walked down the hall, side by side.
Today, Ms. Shulte called me. She called at about 1545, so I didn't pick up the phone because there's no way I could've gotten home this quickly from school and I didn't want to have one of those "No, I wasn't skipping third--I had an appointment" conversations with the counselor. After listening to her message, which said only that she wanted to talk to me and to call her back, I picked up the phone and dialed her number.
She picked up on the first ring. (Hint: people who pick up on the first ring don't have enough to do with their lives.)
"This is Carmen, calling for Ms. Shu--"
"Hello, Carmen," she said, cutting me off. "I just talked to your teacher, Mr. W?"
Oh fuck, I thought.
"He said something--well, let me first say that I love you and really think you've done a lot in helping with the program." Love. She said I love you, just like that, like she's never insulted me or belittled me or put me in rock/hard place situations.
"Gee, thanks," I said, as unsarcastically as possible. I didn't say any of the other next-line candidates bouncing around in my head, such as We've only been dating for a few weeks--I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment or You mean this in a strictly platonic sense, right? or Nice line--wanna fuck?, the last of which is a variation on the best pickup line ever, as related by J. Anyway.
"It's just that Mr. W told me--and I found this hard to believe--told me that you were considering not returning to the program this Saturday." As if I hadn't already made clear my intention to quit. As if I would be gone for a week, then realize my grievous mistake and come groveling back. I realized she was speaking again and tuned in to hear, "He said that one of your reasons for leaving us was that you thought I didn't like you."
You'd like that, wouldn't you? I thought. You'd like it if I said outright that I hated you. So, as is my tactic with all adults who find it amusing to torment younger members of their programs, I did exactly what she could not be anticipating. "That's not an issue," I said. "I just felt that I was perpetually performing your responsibilities--and the responsibilities of the personnel you'd hired--and had to get out of the way in order for you to step up to the task of running the program without my interference." (Have I ever mentioned that cool rage makes me wonderfully articulate?)
She sputtered a little and went silent. I let the silence stretch--I sure as hell wasn't going to be the next one to speak.
"Oh," she said finally. "Is the problem Malcolm and Thomas?"
Malcolm and Thomas--the two percussionists in my section, the ones who can't fucking play--were, admittedly, part of the problem. "Not really," I said. "I'm sure they'll be able to cover all of the mallet parts in my absence." That, of course, was just to rub in her face that fact that they have no idea how to play the mallet parts; could not, in fact, play said parts if their relatively worthless lives depended on them.
"Well then, what is it?"
"I have other commitments," I said. "They don't allow me to spend my Saturdays and Sundays supervising large sections of the Youth Orchestra. I've been looking into paying jobs, like yours."
Either incredibly stupid or incredibly impervious to direct, petty, and rather cutting insults, Ms. Shulte persisted, "If Malcolm and Thomas weren't in the program, would you consider staying? You're our best percussionist."
I barely managed to keep from laughing outright. She was offering to trade them for me. Fucking trade members of the YO away for the right to keep me as her personal slave.
"Thank you," I said, "but no."
Another awkward silence, this one broken by rustling papers at her end. "I'm afraid I don't understand, then," Ms. Shulte tried at last. "You've said all the reasons Mr. W cited aren't true."
"I can't possibly know what he told you were my reasons, but I can assure you that they are completely legitimate, have to do with other--more important--commitments, and are none of your concern, though I'm glad you're worried enough about your program to ask me about them."
By this time, I was enjoying myself, coming up with retorts that became at once more respectful and more incisive. The conversation continued like this for another five minutes. I prided myself on my use of vocabulary: I managed to include "picayune," "dogmatic," "pernicious," and "puerile," among others, in some truly beautiful sentences. My English teacher would've been proud.
At long length, Ms. Shulte gave up. "I realize you have other commitments, and I'm glad you're responsible like this," she said. "I have three kids, and I know senior year is hard." (She'd kept bringing up that fact that she'd given birth to children as if that would somehow make her more human in my eyes. All it did was force me to come up with ridiculous scenarios in which someone would've been desperate enough to have sex with her.) "If you ever need a recommendation..."
"I'll know who to call," I said, mentally singing Ghostbusters! "Thank you for your extreme level-headedness."
She went on another tangent about how I'd contributed to the program, how they'd miss me, and how she was sorry to see "my best percussionist" go.
"Thanks again," I told her. "I have to go, but I appreciated your call," for making my day that much more entertaining.
"Thank you," she said, after the fashion of radio talk show interviewees.
I hung up the phone furious, but now that I've written this, I think I might've mistaken my extreme high spirits for anger. Or at least, the high I get from winning a debate. Most of me hopes I'll never see her again, that she won't try to call our house in the future.
A small, sadistic, rebellious part hopes she will.
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Re: Yay!
Date: 2005-02-02 06:18 pm (UTC)"Well, boys... your performance has not been... up to par."
"So we need more practice?"
"...Well... in a way. Extracurricular practice. As in not here."
"You're not going to have any percussionists. Don't you need those?"
"Actually, uh, I will have one... Get out."
Re: Yay!
Date: 2005-02-02 06:27 pm (UTC)"So, you two. What would it take to get you to return?"
"Murdering Carmen in her sleep."
"All right. Here's her address. Don't get caught with a handgun inside D.C."
:D