Manoogianism

Manoogian was a man. He was an Armenian man who escaped genocide under the Ottomans. Skip ahead a few decades and he was making single-handled sink faucets. Don't know if he invented them or if he Edisoned the idea from some poor faucet designer who'd devoted his life to the concept. But he held the patent and that's usually all that matters. His company, Delta Faucetures and Plumberies, crushed these out and sold them all over the world. He made so many his name is all over Detroit. The mayor's mansion is his old house.

We call single-handled faucets Manoogians here. It's a status symbol to have one and a sign of lower status to have to turn two separate knobs to get the right temperature. I turned on my non-Manoogian and a thick stream of lead came out. I drank it. I am now resistant to radioactive fallout. I have an allergic sensitivity to high concentrations of iodine so lead is better for me than the pills you're supposed to take if you're exposed to radiation.

When I was nine I was taken to a urologist for a procedure. The procedure was a sensitive one, not for polite company. The issue was this: my underwear was spotted with blood and I was not a pubescent girl so this was cause for concern. I walked into the kitchen where my mom was on the phone with my grandmother and she was telling my grandmother that there was blood in my underwear, that it appeared to be coming out of my penis. I was shocked and embarrassed. They brought me in for x-rays and the radiologist had me drink a whole glass of red iodine to illuminate my organs for the machine. I went into anaphylaxis. It was terrifying. I recommend not going into anaphylaxis if you're given the choice. They gave me an epinephrine shot in the butt. Another humiliation. But I didn't die.

The next step was for them to look inside to find where the blood was coming from, which involved a camera on the end of a long catheter-like stem and I will spare you the rest because you already get it. Turned out it was inconclusive, probably scarring from riding my bike too roughly or something. I'm glad it hasn't happened again.

So I had a couple days off from school for all of that. That was fourth grade, and I hated fourth grade. A group of my classmates hated me and attacked me for being a nerd. I learned to fight back and that made them angrier so the cycle went on and on. I had a big crush on a new girl in class too and I didn't know how to deal with it. I gave her too much attention and made her embarrassed. When I learned how I'd made her feel I was ashamed.

Our teacher, Cheryl Plowman, was a severe woman with a hard edge to her. The classroom was always cold and it was impossible to joke around in there. She took a leave of absence for several weeks and we got a long-term substitute. There was a detente. Things loosened up. I learned I could get laughs by doing jerky things so I did. When Mrs. Plowman came back she seemed different. She'd been grieving, I think. She was softer and quieter. I know now that she was one of my better teachers. I actually learned stuff from her I remember, and she always picked great books for reading time. The Magician and His Boy, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I had a habit of winding my arms around each other while she read and then unwinding them like I was tying and untying a knot in a rope. This went on for months before she finally told me to stop it. I imagine it was pretty obnoxious, right there in her line of sight while she read us Charlotte's Web. I was in love with the protagonist from A Wrinkle in Time. Those books made me want to be a physicist. I didn't become a physicist but I still think science is awesome.

My obsession with reading was at its peak that year and one of the reasons the jerks in the class took out their insecurities on me. I get it, now. Most of those guys came from terrible homes. Beatings, poverty, alcoholism. Our side of town was run down in places and there was a lot of airborne rage. Organized battles on the playgrounds and in the kiddy park between our house and Matt's. We organized to defend ourselves. Obsessive, detailed maps of the whole neighborhood. Code names and a secret language and lists of friends and enemies. We stockpiled rocks and walnuts in the rusty barbecue grills in the parks; arsenals, in case some shit broke out. Each group built secret forts in trees and hedgerows and when we found another group's fort we raided and destroyed it. We spent a lot of time on our bikes and the desire to dart around like that in a place I know well never goes away.