THIS IS A TRUE STORY. (Or So I Thought.)
AFTERNOON HOMEROOM 1978
Wayne stabbed me with a penknife
Janie reports.
He did what? She proffers her blood-dappled hand.
I zigzag towards the culprit,
But the buzzer sounds,
lockers slam,
students scramble,
the classroom stills.
Hours later, my principal phones.
Janie’s father says Wayne stabbed her?
Oh God, I confess.
I forgot.
Last year when I submitted this tale to Vine Leaves Press’s 50 Give or Take, I was sure every word was true.
Months after the poem was published, I happened upon this diary entry and discovered the real truth.
September 20th, 1984
4:45 pm
Jesus Christ.
I just got a phone call from Mrs. D.
Mrs. D is Janie’s mother.
“I'm calling about the fact that Janie got stabbed in school today.”
I tripped all over my tongue as I talked to the woman because I'm at fault a bit here. I know this all sounds a bit bizarre so I'll calm down and explain.
During homeroom today, at approximately 2:30 p.m. and after the first dismissal, I was seated at my desk. There were approximately 10 kids in my room at this point. Janie said to me, “Are kids allowed to have knives in school?” I responded no and asked her why she wanted to know.
“Because Wayne had a knife with him today and he stabbed me.”
“What do you mean he stabbed you?” I asked.
“On the ankle.”
“Did it bleed?”
“Not really.”
Now what I should have done at this point was check out her ankle. There are a couple of reasons I didn't. First of all I had other students who were trying to get assignments etc. at my desk. In other words I was preoccupied.
Second, the final dismissal was called and Janie left.
Liz and I had 10 kids for detention and we opened the door so I could watch the kids on her side of the room while she made some phone calls to parents. I was with those kids for that hour and I completely forgot about the incident, as crazy as that may sound.
Wayne is one of the sweetest kids in our group, so that may have been why I forgot about it. I don't know.
Anyway as I talked to Mrs D, she said she was going to call the police and what did I think of that? I tried to think rationally, but believe me that was difficult.
She went on to say that her husband was a policeman and he was going to be livid to hear about this. I told her I'd have the principal call and I got in touch with him. I felt like a fool when I had to say that I’d never looked at Janie’s leg. He tried to make me feel better by saying How can we know what these kids will bring into school? He said he’d call all parties involved, but I sure can see this thing getting blown out of proportion. Visions of being sued for negligence and all sorts of things go through my mind.
Jesus Christ.
“Jesus Christ” is right. My little tale was riddled with untruths.
Plus this revolting revelation rendered my favorite line a lie:
She proffers her blood-dappled hand.
I could have sworn Janie had stood at my desk, right arm outstretched, red splotches dotting her hand. But my diary reveals otherwise. Janie did not proffer a blood-dappled hand. Nor did she proffer a wounded ankle. In fact, Janie proffered nothing at all – except for saying she’d been stabbed.
Also, my principal was not the one who called me. It was Janie’s mother.
Worst of all, I was off on the date by six years, which is clearly very bad reporting. Unforgivable, really.
So I’m a bad reporter and an accidental liar. A scary confession for someone who traffics in true stories.
For decades I’ve documented my life through copious diary entries, scrapbooks, home movies, photographs, and the like. Thanks to these personal receipts, I’ve won many an argument about the who, what, when, where and why of my life.
I am a fanatic for facts and details. Just ask my daughter. When Hilary and I launched My Mother’s Diaries two years ago, our first TikToks went viral. I didn’t know what a TikTok was, nor did I understand the premise. We hitched a tiny mic with a twisted cord to her phone and we made our way to various Southern Maine locations where zany things had happened to me and Hilary had me stand in front of these places and say quirky true things like:
This is where I may have seen a toe in the ditch. (1969)
This is where I was a bridesmaid and never saw the bride again. (1972)
This is where I got stuck in the waterslide. (1996)
This is where I was dismounting a horse when my bra snagged on the saddle. I went down, the bra went up. (1969)
This is where a recreational cannon shot a spark into my bra. (1997)
This is where a customer asked How are your donuts? and for some reason I said, Fine thank you and yours? (1973)
Uploading and publishing these videos proved to be harrowing, but not for the reasons you’d think. I knew I looked a little wacky, a lot unfashionable and kind of old, but unless some hunk of an ex-boyfriend from the seventies was on TikTok, I didn’t care. I just wanted to be sure that whatever we put out in the ether where it lives for all time was nothing but the truth — the dates, the locations and the events HAD TO BE ACCURATE.
For example, out of the blue, I texted two childhood friends to see if they recollected seeing the sheared-off toe in Uncle Charlie’s ditch…and they did. One of them added this juicy sidebar: their buddy had kicked that severed thing all the way uphill to the general store. As much as I wanted to confirm this with the alleged perpetrator, I couldn’t find it in me to put the alleged toe kicker on the spot. I did, however, start the process of tracking down the victim, but thank god I came to my senses and didn’t re-traumatize the poor guy, even though the lack of victim confirmation did leave a big hole in the toe tale.
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Also, please notice in the above video that I tiptoe around the absolute truth by saying, “I may have seen a toe in a ditch.” That’s because I cannot swear I saw the toe myself. I might have simply heard the story and inserted myself into it…or my sister might have been the one to see it. She doesn’t remember for sure either.
Then there’s This is where I was a bridesmaid and I never saw the bride again. (1972). We shot that one on a whim, but when we did, I thought I had the correct location and date. I did not. I tried to let go of those two mistakes, but then I discovered in my diary that I actually saw the bride 4 times after the wedding, once in June of 1975 and thrice in May of 1976. Therefore, this entire one line story is a lie, albeit accidental.
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Now here comes the bride really weird part: last month that long lost friend messaged me. I’d been looking for her for the past fifty years and just like that, she pops up in my inbox. My first thought? Oh god, I’ve got to explain that I accidentally lied about her on-line and five million people saw it.
Best I could, I squelched that thought and focused on acting normal for a change.
Two years into our high wire adventure, Hilary and I have posted countless hours of content for My Mother’s Diaries. Early on, as she was assembling a “This Is Where” clip late one night, Hilary texted something like, Mom, I need to finish and upload this video now. What year did you lose a false eyelash and pee your pants at Square Peg?
Give me a second, I wrote. Forty-five minutes later she called and I explained I’d been shuffling through my diaries the entire time, but still hadn’t found the date.
“MOM! Do you think the CIA is going to investigate you if you mess up the date?”
“Hilary, don’t do this to me. Everything has to be accurate.”
“MOM-M-M-M!”
“Hilary, you know how I am. Give me another five minutes.”
“MOM-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M!”
There’s only one way to end this story and I bet you saw it coming:
This is where my daughter almost killed me and I never saw her again. (2023)
