CHAUVET CAVE by Marc Alexander Valle

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CHAUVET CAVE

by Marc Alexander Valle 

One of the earliest memories I have of my mother is her teaching me how to spell words. 

She would draw the stick figure picture and write the word beneath it. 

I asked her multiple times to run this lesson for me. 

My mother didn’t have a diploma, but she somehow knew the value of stimulating the visual cortex. 

It didn’t raise my verbal IQ by much. 

I was a decent student in mid-level classes, and I scored below average on my SATs. 

I don’t know what it did to benefit my education. 

I just know that if you asked me to choose between my sight or my hearing, I’d probably have to give up music. 

Then there’s the story of the mother, who lifted a truck to rescue her son.

I don’t believe she did it, but I believe that she tried.

My 7th Grade

In seventh grade, the school put me in the lowest section. I had little in common with those kids. They talked about who was making out with who and who’d been placed in juvenile detention for the summer. They also knew song lyrics. Many of the boys rapped to themselves throughout the day.

They’d ask me why I was there.

I would say, “I don’t know”.

They would say, “Are you smart?”

I would say, “No,” or “I don’t know.”

Then they would say, “Yes, you are.” Then try to get me to help them on a test or with seatwork. When I didn’t know the answers to their questions, they would say, “But I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

I was always a quiet person in school. This was the quietest I ever felt.

The next semester, I was transferred to another section. This was the best time I ever had in school. We were considered a section that was fully capable of achievement, but as our social studies teacher would say, “You’re all ignorant. Not stupid. Ignorant. You know what ignorant means? It means that you have the ability to know, but you don’t want to.”

These statements were a joke to us. Everything was a joke. At the cafeteria, we did this thing where we’d say “Schism-scasm-schism” then follow it with a random word. Then we’d insult our classmate with a statement that rhymed with that last word.

My parents sat me down to talk about my grades. They said that I was taking advantage of their marital problems by not doing my school work. I probably was taking advantage of them. I don’t know. I was having too much fun.

Smart, but lonely. Happy, but ignorant. Seventh grade.