Nor Friends and Lovers

No two selves are identical ‑-all are unique.  But some share an independence of thought, a struggle for perfection.  These forces can shape lives.  They can color perceptions, crystallize the formation of character, and dominate our relations with each other.  Often, too, they will call us to a particular profession, a science, an art.

For me the call came from science.  I was challenged by the discipline it demanded and lured by the promise of adventure in the unknown.  Moreover, it was a subject that came easily to me.  But then, anything that could get me into trouble came easily to me.

Primarily the problem was my hands.  I washed them daily and couldn't do a thing with them.  In science recitation I shone.  I remembered which bacteria were anaerobic, tripped lightly through complicated formulas, and found gram molecular weights with ease.  Yet none of these could I demonstrate in the high school lab.

This, however, did not discourage my teachers, at least not after the first two weeks.  By then not only were they prepared for me in the labs, but they had learned to work me into their lessons as well.  Consider Mrs. Johnson who assigned us, one week, to culture bacteria in our petri dishes.  One by one she took the prepared slides of my classmates and demonstrated gram negative and gram positive colonies.  "And now," she announced, "for a change of pace, we'll examine Miss Luria's slide.  Since she didn't prepare her petri dish properly, her culture, I'm sure, will be full of amoebas."

With complete dignity I handed her my slide.  "I may be careless," I reminded her, "but I'm thorough.  You'll find paramecia and rotifers in there too."

We studied protozoan life for the next two weeks.

Mr. Werblow found my lab techniques similarly useful.  By the year I reached his class (qualitative analysis), my insubordinate hands had been chastened by a series of cuts, burns, and scratches.  They had agreed to a truce and now performed with reasonable skill.  Not so my cheeks, however.  Never having been penalized for misbehavior, they continued to suck up too much or too little in the pipette tubes I worked with.  Thus I reached Mr. Werblow's desk shortly after the start of the third experiment.

"Sir, I can't continue the tests for an unknown acid.  By accident I ‑
"

"Yes, Ronale, I know.  You tasted the liquid and you think it's citric acid.  Here."  He handed me a box of baking soda.

"What's this for?" I asked, bewildered.

"For brushing your teeth.  They're going to have a film on them for a few days.  Start now."

"But citric acid is in orange juice.  It doesn't leave a film."

"No, but sulfuric acid does.  All acids taste like citric if they're dilute enough.  And believe me, Ronale, I made sure yours was dilute enough."

And so into his next class unit: the neutralizing effect of bases.

It was not only at school that my drive for perfection spluttered haltingly.  It fared little better at home.  Like my teachers, my grandmother was prepared for any eventuality.  She accepted philosophically my use of baking soda for toothpaste, just as she accepted the crowd that gathered every Friday in her living room.  There my friends and I stomped a weekly Thanksgiving dance around the cookie jar.  Even more noisy were our attempts at the rumba, but the true threat of deafness came from our efforts to escape Dracula.  Most of the time Dracula was known as Eleanor Weiss, a quiet, ladylike girl.  But somehow the sight of our fishtank's black cotton cover produced in her a strange transformation. 

Draping the dark cloth over her head, Eleanor would advance toward us menacingly, cackling as she came.  To ward off the curse of her sinister fingers, the rest of us would scramble, shrieking, for the cookie jar.  We designated its contents sacred wafers, and insisted loudly that a half bitten cookie protected us from her evil intentions. 

My grandmother tolerated this din for the same reasons she tolerated the whispered giggles, sign of a dirty joke session.  She considered our activities normal, healthy, and necessary.  More civilized behavior would have concerned her immensely.

This is not to say we left her unbewildered.  One afternoon Winnie refused to tell us a joke for whose punchline she needed a Manhattan phone book.  Since we didn't have one, I moved to rectify matters.  The business office I reached told me they would call back and confirm a delivery date.

Now my grandmother had been out shopping when I first dialed the phone company.  Arriving home as I took their return call, she could make nothing of the conversation that followed:

"Yes.  Well, no, we don't live there, but we could certainly use it.  Yes, I'd like it by Friday.  Tuesday?  That'll be fine."  Giving my name and address, I hung up and caught a puzzled look on my grandmother's face.

"Ronnie just bought Brooklyn Bridge," Maxine explained to her earnestly.

"Don't believe her, Mrs. Goodman," called Winnie.  Ron's only renting it.  She needs it for HDS."

Shaking her head, grandma continued into the kitchen.  "Brooklyn Bridge," she muttered.  "I wouldn't put it past her.  I wouldn't put it past any of them."

HDS was a familiar name to my friends and family.  These initials stood for History and Development of Science, a course I had elected to take that year.  Rarely has one of my choices been so wise.  Not only was no lab work required in it (a telling consideration for me), but more important still, Mr. Feifer taught it.

No teacher I've ever known could spellbind a class the way Mr. Feifer could.  He used the lecture method only, but so captivating were his discourses that students sat rapt, listening to him as a child listens to a favorite fairy tale.  Not a syllable dropped unheard.  Indeed, so fascinating were the notes I made from his lectures that I would reread them at night, relaxing with them before going to sleep.  Nor would I miss a session of his class, even on those days when my attendance wasn't obligatory.

The course was open to juniors and seniors.  On the occasions when the seniors were excused for college entrance exams or graduation practice, class was still held.  Mr. Feifer would then present material he thought of interest, but that he wouldn't hold us responsible for.  The attendance of the juniors, therefore, he deemed optional.

My friends ‑-almost all of them ‑-were scheduled for lunch the period I had HDS.  At first they couldn't believe I wouldn't take advantage of the freedom Mr. Feifer extended.  They'd grab me in the hall.  "Do you know what you missed by not coming to lunch with us?  Betty was eating her dessert and ‑
"

"Do you know what you missed by not electing HDS?" I'd counter.  "Today Mr. Feifer went over concepts derived from the theory of relativity.  I'd give up my own lunch period to hear him again."  Not until my friends took the course the following year did they appreciate my viewpoint.

My steadfast attendance together with my nightly review of the notes made my class performance outstanding.  I received one hundred on every test, and Mr. Feifer's notebook checks also produced perfect marks.  Nonetheless, my final grade from him read "ninety-nine."

How had I fallen short of my goal?  Where was I lacking?  What had I missed?  I went to Mr. Feifer.

"Sir, could you explain why I received a grade of ninety-nine?"

"That's the highest mark I give, Ronale."

"How come?"

"Because perfection doesn't exist in this world.  We have no right to demand it ‑-not from science, not from art, not from ourselves, and not from our friends and lovers.  If you remember nothing else you've learned from me, remember that."

He was, as I say, a truly great teacher.  I have never forgotten.