lindaknapp

This is the real Linda Knapp. . .wife, mom, Nini, teacher, grad student. . . if you'd like to know more about me, my biography is below.



Just wanted to add a little note--I passed my comps! Thank you alll for your good wishes!

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__**Triumph**__ I have always loved literature; I have always been a reader; I have always felt that I didn’t quite belong.

When I was in the 7th grade, my music teacher, Miss Lotito, knew that I loved Broadway music and asked me whether or not I had the original Broadway cast album of //My Fair Lady.// After assuring her that, yes, indeed//,// I did, she asked me to bring it in. The following day, she held the album up for the class to see. “Do you see the cover?” she asked. “It’s by a famous cartoonist. I can’t think of his name, but he’s famous.” “Al Hirschfeld,” I whispered to her. “His name is Al Hirshfeld.” “That’s right, “ she said. “Now, look at the design on the cover.” She pointed out the different characters and then began to tell their relationships. “This is Eliza Doolittle. See how she’s a marionette? And see the man controlling her? That’s Henry Higgins. And see that man up in the clouds? The one with the wings on who’s controlling Henry Higgins? That’s God.” Quickly I glanced up at her. Catching her eye, I ever so slightly shook my head. Puzzled, she looked at me. “Oh, it’s not God?” “Well,” I said, and not wanting to embarrass her, I continued, ”Some people think it’s George Bernard Shaw.” “Shaw?” she repeated in a puzzled voice. “Yes,” I answered, “He’s the one who wrote //Pygmalion.//” Then, from the other side of the room, came a mocking voice: “Pig? Pig—malion?” The class burst into laughter. Embarrassed now for myself, I sought to explain. “Shaw wrote this play called //Pygmalion//, that //My Fair Lady// is based on. //Pygmalion// is based on the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea—he was a sculptor who created the perfect woman. He sculpted Galatea and then fell in love with her. . . “ My voice trailed off. I looked around the room. Dead silence. My peers were staring at me, gaping in astonishment—and not the sort of astonishment that inferred admiration. “I’m so weird,” I thought. “I think this stuff is fascinating, but I guess I am the only one.” My friend Teresa looked at me with pity: “It’s ok,” she said, “Forget about it. Doesn’t matter.” But it did. And the experience stayed with me. I never wanted to volunteer information or speak up ever again. Then. ..

My junior year of high school, I had a class in English with Cal Fornwald. What a wonderful, amazing teacher he was! We were assigned to read the sci-fi classic //Childhood’s End.// When we finished the novel, Mr. Fornwald asked us, “Who finds the ending sad?” Every hand went up, every hand but mine. I slunk down in the seat, to make myself invisible, but Mr. Fornwald saw me anyway. His eyes met mine; quickly I averted them, hoping he would not call on me and ask me why my hand was not up. How could I answer him? In front of all the others? But I couldn’t lie. I didn’t find the ending sad—ironic, but not sad.So I wouldn't raise my hand. I waited on tenterhooks for the rest of the class—periodically, Mr. Fornwald would look my way and my stomach would sink, thinking he would call on me—but he never did. Then the bell rang. Students ran out, but not me. I waited for everyone to leave. I felt that I owed Mr. Fornwald an explanation. “Mr. Fornwald,” I stammered nervously, “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t find the ending sad.” He looked at me closely and asked quietly, “Why didn’t you find it sad?” “Well,” I said hurriedly, “I found the ending to be ironic—Jan wanted to be the greatest pianist in the world, and, even though he’s the only pianist left his dream has come true. So I see the ending as ironic, not sad.” There was a pause; it seemed to last forever. Oh, God, I thought. It’s just like that music class. He probably thinks I’m so weird, too. Finally, he spoke. “Only one person got it right,” he said. And then he smiled. One person? What did he mean? He must have read the confusion in my face, and his smile widened and warmed. Putting his arm around my shoulder he said, “I don’t think it’s sad either, Linda. I also think it’s ironic. You were the only one to get it right.” "Really?” I stammered. “So I did understand it correctly?” “Oh, yes,” he said. “And. . .” His voice trailed off and he seemed to stop to think carefully about what he was going to say. Then. ..

Drawing a breath, choosing his words judiciously, he said, “I think you may have a gift for this. Not everybody who reads understands. And remember, (now he smiled broadly) just because everyone sees something one way, it doesn’t mean they’re right and you’re wrong. Maybe you’re the only one who gets it right.” What a gift he gave me. Not only did I love language and literature, I might actually be good at it! And, even if I felt I didn’t belong, that was all right, too. Maybe I didn’t always feel I belonged, but it didn’t mean that I was wrong. Maybe I didn’t always belong because I was the only one who got it right.