Read Online The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Cody Kimmel
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was black with red letters reading: “Death Metal University.” What can I say—I’d put it on this morning while sharing a DUCKI moment with Spinky.
“Amish?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s a kind of religious community that you live in, very old-fashioned. We keep our homes and persons very plain—no electricity even.”
“I know who the Amish are,” Ms. Hay said, glancing at my T-shirt again. The corners of her mouth tugged up slightly.
“I see you’ve noticed the Death Metal University shirt,” I said. “I wouldn’t normally be wearing it. My roommate lent it to me.”
That part was true.
“But while I’m at Eaton,” I continued, “I’m . . . well, we Amish folks . . . this is a . . . um . . .”
“Your rumspringa?” Ms. Hay asked.
What? Was this a trap? Was rump springer a real word? Wait. Don’t panic. Go with it.
“Well, that’s what you English may call it,” I said, trailing off.
“Hmmmm.”
Keep talking, I told myself. But it was difficult. My stomach was doing a weird sort of flutter, like it was preparing to escape from the rest of my body.
“Right, so anyway, the Amish are okay with humor, sort of, I mean, smiling is definitely okay. But getting up onstage to make jokes and talk about myself is probably . . . Being humble is really important to us, and you know, being that my parents will probably be visiting that weekend, it could really shock them, and I’d hate for them to take the horse and buggy all this way only to feel . . . shamed.”
Ms. Hay made an odd coughing sound while keeping her lips pressed firmly together. Then she cleared her throat.
“Well, it is a requirement of the class,” she said. “And there are many ways to be funny without being offensive. I’m here to teach you humor as a coping mechanism, to be comfortable with who you are. Speaking publicly is part of that. Take me, for example. If I have to make an announcement in Morning Meeting, I have to bring a little box to stand on so I can reach the microphone. Now, I could try to do that discreetly, or I could make a joke out of it. Being extremely short is part of who I am. I own it by seeing the humor in it.”
Wow. That was sort of impressive, although I had no idea what personality that made her. She was clearly not a DUCKI or a MEG or any of the other classifications on my list. What was she? Or did standard personalities not apply to teachers?
“So I feel certain that you can learn something in this class, Moxie. Even with your . . . Amish limitations.”
Oh.
“Okay,” I mumbled. I was trapped. What else could I do?
“Okay, then. I think that’s probably it for today. The students always say the shorter, the better,” Ms. Hay said. “I think that’s why I’m so popular. So I’ll see you on Thursday, Moxie.”
She just sat there on top of the desk, like a collectible Buddha paperweight. But she’d said we were done, so I got up.
“Bye,” I said. Then I walked as Amishly as possible out the door and into the hallway.
I felt like I had pulled that off okay. But it had all been for nothing, because I was still going to have to get up in front of the entire school and perform. How nauseating and potentially stupid. Everyone would . . .
I froze in my tracks. Performing in front of the entire school . Together in one room at the same time. Some of them thought I was a DUCKI, some believed I was a MEG, several figured I was an ARA or a HHSE, and I’d just told one I was Amish.
Well then.
I had a problem.
Chapter Eight
B y nearly the end of the first week and with two sessions under my belt, I still wasn’t sure I could live with Self-Confidence Through Comedy. Ms. Hay seemed nice enough, but I couldn’t stop silently agonizing about my unwilling upcoming comedy debut. I was mulling it over again in the lunch line when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see a smiling girl with brown hair and bright blue eyes. Sage Juliusburger. I could always remember her
“Amish?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s a kind of religious community that you live in, very old-fashioned. We keep our homes and persons very plain—no electricity even.”
“I know who the Amish are,” Ms. Hay said, glancing at my T-shirt again. The corners of her mouth tugged up slightly.
“I see you’ve noticed the Death Metal University shirt,” I said. “I wouldn’t normally be wearing it. My roommate lent it to me.”
That part was true.
“But while I’m at Eaton,” I continued, “I’m . . . well, we Amish folks . . . this is a . . . um . . .”
“Your rumspringa?” Ms. Hay asked.
What? Was this a trap? Was rump springer a real word? Wait. Don’t panic. Go with it.
“Well, that’s what you English may call it,” I said, trailing off.
“Hmmmm.”
Keep talking, I told myself. But it was difficult. My stomach was doing a weird sort of flutter, like it was preparing to escape from the rest of my body.
“Right, so anyway, the Amish are okay with humor, sort of, I mean, smiling is definitely okay. But getting up onstage to make jokes and talk about myself is probably . . . Being humble is really important to us, and you know, being that my parents will probably be visiting that weekend, it could really shock them, and I’d hate for them to take the horse and buggy all this way only to feel . . . shamed.”
Ms. Hay made an odd coughing sound while keeping her lips pressed firmly together. Then she cleared her throat.
“Well, it is a requirement of the class,” she said. “And there are many ways to be funny without being offensive. I’m here to teach you humor as a coping mechanism, to be comfortable with who you are. Speaking publicly is part of that. Take me, for example. If I have to make an announcement in Morning Meeting, I have to bring a little box to stand on so I can reach the microphone. Now, I could try to do that discreetly, or I could make a joke out of it. Being extremely short is part of who I am. I own it by seeing the humor in it.”
Wow. That was sort of impressive, although I had no idea what personality that made her. She was clearly not a DUCKI or a MEG or any of the other classifications on my list. What was she? Or did standard personalities not apply to teachers?
“So I feel certain that you can learn something in this class, Moxie. Even with your . . . Amish limitations.”
Oh.
“Okay,” I mumbled. I was trapped. What else could I do?
“Okay, then. I think that’s probably it for today. The students always say the shorter, the better,” Ms. Hay said. “I think that’s why I’m so popular. So I’ll see you on Thursday, Moxie.”
She just sat there on top of the desk, like a collectible Buddha paperweight. But she’d said we were done, so I got up.
“Bye,” I said. Then I walked as Amishly as possible out the door and into the hallway.
I felt like I had pulled that off okay. But it had all been for nothing, because I was still going to have to get up in front of the entire school and perform. How nauseating and potentially stupid. Everyone would . . .
I froze in my tracks. Performing in front of the entire school . Together in one room at the same time. Some of them thought I was a DUCKI, some believed I was a MEG, several figured I was an ARA or a HHSE, and I’d just told one I was Amish.
Well then.
I had a problem.
Chapter Eight
B y nearly the end of the first week and with two sessions under my belt, I still wasn’t sure I could live with Self-Confidence Through Comedy. Ms. Hay seemed nice enough, but I couldn’t stop silently agonizing about my unwilling upcoming comedy debut. I was mulling it over again in the lunch line when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see a smiling girl with brown hair and bright blue eyes. Sage Juliusburger. I could always remember her
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