Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

I am a very important person. I have evidence to substantiate this delusion, I mean, idea. My evidence flies in the face of the fact that pretty much all of our planet’s human population remains remarkably unimpressed by me.

My two dogs love, adore, cherish and worship me. Whenever I come home, they erupt into leaping, whirling paroxysms of utter jubilation. It does not matter if I have been gone 10 days or 10 minutes – their response is always pure, unfettered joy and glee.

These rapturous displays of canine devotion are the only reason I keep the dogs around. It certainly isn’t because they do anything even remotely useful. They don’t.

Both times my house got broken into, the dogs did absolutely nothing to thwart the process. I don’t think the burglars even realized that I HAD dogs. But my pooches can be relied upon to vigorously demonstrate happiness about my presence, and I need this. I need this so badly, sometimes I even get back in the car and drive around the block and come home again, just so that I can bathe in the warm experience of two living creatures busting-out with joy at my return.

I am aware this is profoundly pathetic, but hey, we all do what we have to do to get through the day.

I am a very fascinating person. My evidence for this is my iguana’s behavior. Now that breeding season craziness is over, Goo has settled back into his normal routine. He sits and stares at me intently. For hours, every day. I think I know how Madonna and J.Lo and other famous, scintillating women feel. I have my very own personal reptilian paparazzi. Goo watches me perform tasks such as paying bills, painting my nails and grading papers with rapt attention. These are pretty thrilling activities, I must admit. He follows me from room to room and perches nearby, studying my every move. He hates to blink, because he might miss some stunning development, like me putting a stamp on an envelope, or clipping a hangnail.

I need this, too.

I need these animals’ interest and adoration to offset the self-esteem-shredding-and-stomping that is the story of my life with humans. I live with my 17-year-old daughter, Veronica (Motto: Parents Suck, Especially Mothers. Especially YOU, Mom.). I escape the confines of my home five days a week to teach first grade. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. My first-graders love me, because all first-graders automatically love their teachers. But they are also brutally honest. They just can’t help it.

“You’re not fat, Ms. Ducote,” Javoris said. “You just LOOK fat.”

“Ms. Ducote,” said Fandius, “How come your hair be all nappy and messy and you don’t do nothing with it?”

I overslept and rushed to work sans makeup. Six-year-old Pecola said, “Ms. Du, you scare me. You look like a Halloween.”

I got uncharacteristically dressed-up one day. This is not like me. Silk dress, stockings, heels, hair in an elegant updo. I don’t remember what the occasion was. I must have had an appointment after work to meet with a visiting Head of State, or maybe I was picking up my Pulitzer later on, or perhaps John Mellencamp finally came to his senses and was coming to pick me up after school, so we could spend the rest of our lives in glorious rock n’ roll decadence…I just don’t remember. But I remember what Justin said: “Ms. D., you look beautiful…you look just like a pink poodle.”

One morning Jabar excitedly waved a comb in the air and said, “Ms. D., Ms. D.! I bet you don’t know what this is!”

If I have a zit I didn’t notice, my students will edify me about it. If I have a hole in a sock, they fall all over themselves to be the first to shout it out. I guess this is the job of 6-year-olds – to observe and comment on what they observe. And make no mistake, they observe EVERYTHING.

“Ms. Du, how come you wearing them pants for the fourth day in a row? That’s nasty.” (For the record, I washed them twice during that four-day stretch).

“Ms. Ducote, really, you ought to get your nails done.”

They don’t tell me anything that isn’t true. They observe me every bit as intently as the lizard and the dogs do. But blessedly, neither the lizard nor the dogs can speak. This is why I need them.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

Archives