56. A big 'F'ail

By the end of the week, we have our first American history quiz. It’s a multiple choice test. I am reading through all the answer choices and I feel lost. They don’t make sense to me. All options look very similar, with only a couple of words changed here and there. After a few minutes, I am desperate. I don’t know the answers. At all. And I studied hard. I read my textbook, all 50 assigned pages, several times. I read it in between my classes, in the library, and in the middle of the night after the boys went to bed and Mary finally let me out of my daily responsibilities. I do my best to choose the correct answers. But when we get our graded tests back at our next class, my heart sinks. There is a big F at the top of my paper. A big fat F, written in bloody red ink. I barely make it to the end of the class before I burst into tears. I am a good student. I always have been. I don’t fail my classes!! I run into the music building and sit down on the floor in the hallway. I keep looking at the ugly letter F in front of my face and go over all the questions again, one by one. Out of 25, I only got two answers correct. Pure guesses. 

“What’s up? Everything ok?” I hear a voice above me. It’s a voice I already know very well. John. 

I hand him the paper, blemished with the yucky red ink. He looks at it, nods, his boyish face softens. “I can help,” he says with reassurance. 

“Yes, please,” I nearly whisper. 

He grabs my hand and we walk outside and sit down on a patio in front of the library. It feels so nice outside, sun is shining, Georgia breeze playing with my hair. 

“Ok, let me see this.” John grabs my history textbook and starts reading it. He quietly scans a paragraph to himself and then “translates” it for me. He paraphrases the text into “normal” English. He summarizes the material of every single paragraph to me in such a friendly, understandable way, that all of a sudden I have faith I can do this. I write notes as he keeps reading and patiently explaining the material to me. Little by little, we finish my assignment for the week. It takes several hours but that doesn’t seem to phase John at all. I am so grateful. 

“Uhm, John, do you think you could help me with math, please?” I am hesitant to ask. But John is good with math. He has the brain of a scientist. After hanging out with him for a little while, I do realize that he is actually a very brilliant student. 

“No problem. How about tomorrow?”

“Ok, thanks,” I smile at him and he smiles back.

“I have to go and call Mary to pick me up,” I say tiredly.

“Hey, how about I just give you a ride? I don’t mind.” John offers.

“Oh my goodness, you would? Thank you so much!”

John has a red truck. It’s a beat up piece of junk, about to fall apart. It is from 1978, the year I was born. His truck is covered in bumper stickers. “I am only driving this way to piss you off,” and “A nuclear bomb can ruin your entire day.”

I giggle as I am getting into his sad vehicle, hoping that we can make it home. His truck is not capable of running over 45mph and that’s why John keeps sticking his hand out of the window, motioning the cars behind us to pass him. This guy is a character. He even stays with me at the nursing home for the evening and helps me entertain Aaron and Dylan. They love him. Mary looks at us with disapproval. But she doesn’t say anything. Why should she care anyway? She doesn’t care about anything that relates to me after all. I hope she is at least happy she didn’t have to pick me up at school today.

John teaches me math as well. It is not as smooth as our history session. I haven’t had math in years. This is what my comprehensive music education got me in Slovakia. No math. 

John explains an equation to me for the hundredth time. 

“Now you do it by yourself,” he points to the stupid numbers in my notebook.

I start solving the equation but he stops me. “No, wait, no, you forgot this over here.” he motions at a number or an “x” or “y” but I jump up, not letting him finish.

“I can’t do this!” I raise my voice, frustrated at myself. “I hate math!”

I grab my textbook and throw it on the floor. “I can’t do this. It sucks!”

I stand there quietly for a few seconds and then I pick up the textbook from the floor. I throw it down again, now with a bigger bang. I don’t know what got into me. Generally, I am a very calm person. But all the silly numbers and silly math pushed me over the edge. And I am hungry. And tired. And I am failing history. 

Whew, now I feel better that I got my frustrations out.

John is quiet and I am quiet. All of a sudden he bursts out laughing. It’s contagious and I can’t help it. I start laughing too. Oh my goodness, it feels good. The release of emotion is freeing. I needed to laugh and I needed to cry. 

“Ok, come here,” John grabs my hand and leads me back to the table. He picks up the math textbook and calmly prompts me. “Now let’s try this again.”

Next week, I pass my math test with no problems. I make a D on my next history quiz. Progress. 

However, the overachiever in me can’t take it. I go talk to my history professor and explain the difficulties I am having with the class. She is very accommodating and lets me take my exams in written form. No more multiple choice. I can write an essay about what I have learned and show her that I know the material. Things are looking up because on the next exam, I make a C. It’s getting better, one step, one grade at a time.

In the meantime, John and I become inseparable. I cannot imagine a school day without him around. John is always there, he is ready to help with anything I need. Once he realizes that I barely eat, he brings me home and I have dinner with his parents. They are such lovely and welcoming people. John is the youngest of 6 children and he is the only one living with his parents now. At our first meeting, John’s dad takes out a large map and finds Slovakia. 

“Wait a minute, Jarka, Slovakia used to be a part of Czechoslovakia, right?” He is pointing at the map.

“Yes, that is right!” I smile.

After a while, I come to John’s house several times a week and his dad brings out the map every time I am over. I love it. I love John’s parents. 

John and I start dating. We don’t go out on dates because there is no need for that. We see each other every single day at school, between classes, and in the piano practice room. I get used to his presence. I get used to his help and his rides home. He becomes a part of my daily college life and I can’t imagine it any other way. John is still very energetic and talks a lot. He is actually a year younger than me and I don’t even care. Normally, I would never date someone who is younger than me and also a musician. But here we are.

What I feel in my relationship with John must be love, I think. I don’t know that for sure because I don’t think I have ever been truly in love. In the past, I had feelings for the radio guy and the Canadian guy. And it’s kind of like that with John. Probably close enough. Could there still be something bigger to feel than this? I simply can’t answer this question. But I know John is a good person. And my feelings for him are growing. So it’s probably love. Right?

John is very nontraditional. He doesn’t like holding hands. He doesn’t like saying “I love you.” He doesn’t believe in wedding rings and weddings. Everything that is traditional in American culture, he is against it. That is exactly why he is attracted to foreign people. At least he is upfront with me about all of these things and I respect him for it. We are not getting married tomorrow or maybe ever? Since John doesn’t want to get married until he is 30 or maybe he doesn’t want to get married at all. And right now, he is only 20 years old. I learn to take him and appreciate him the way he is. John is John. He claims he is not a typical American guy. Even though he doesn’t know just how stereotypically American he actually is. It is in his carefreeness, his posture, his clothes, his being. His freedom of mind. All of this reminds me of Matt from Canada I met in Slovakia, which feels like a lifetime ago now. And this is exactly why I am also attracted to John. He is so very American. 

*****

Things are getting a little bit better. My grades are improving and I get to eat dinners with the Woodys a few times a week. But I still starve. I am still exhausted, still taking care of the children any free moment I have. I start to rapidly lose weight. My clothes are loose, my pants are falling off me. I don’t have any energy. I don’t have the necessary nourishment to thrive in such a demanding environment. At the same time, I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like my brain is depleted of oxygen and I don’t know how to think for myself anymore.