Wolfsheim's Watch
Ceci Hughes
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Copyright 2020 by Ceci Hughes
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By
the time I graduated high school, it was a well-known fact among my
classmates that I hated Mrs. Cranston. I guess hate is a strong word,
so it�s probably better to say that I strongly disliked
Mrs. Cranston. Mrs. Cranston had a full head of short gray curly
hair. She always wore long flowy hippie skirts, Velcro sandals, and
little wire rimmed glasses that gave the impression she was about to
shush you for speaking too loudly in a library. Mrs. Cranston�s
favorite topics of conversation were classical music and the many
different types of birds that populated the Shenandoah Valley of
Virginia. She was a powerhouse of knowledge about classic literature
and the epitome of how to make a successful career as an English
major. In some ways, she exhibited everything I wanted to be when I
grew up. But despite all this, I strongly disliked Mrs. Cranston, and
to this day, I can trace this strong dislike back to independent
reading in November of 2014.
The
first time I had Mrs. Cranston for a teacher was in ninth grade
English class, and I had started off the year in good favor with her.
She liked me because I always did my work on time and was generally
interested in reading and writing. I liked her because I loved the
subject she taught, and I was a bit of a teacher�s pet. It
wasn�t until the end of the first semester that our
relationship took a turn for the worse. About a month before winter
break, Mrs. Cranston announced in class that it was time to choose
our final independent reading book for the semester. I�d always
excelled at independent reading and often read more than the required
number of books. However, I�d mainly stuck to my comfort zone
of young adult fiction, and this time, I was hoping to impress Mrs.
Cranston by reading a classic novel. Seeking to win my teacher�s
favor, I approached her after class and asked what book she thought
would suit me.
�Why
don�t you read The Great Gatsby,� she suggested,
pulling a well-read copy off the communal reading shelf in her
classroom. The cover was creased from several years of careless
teenagers bending it back, and the spine was held together by a few
threads in the middle. I quickly glanced over those mysterious blue
eyes on the cover, glimmering over the yellow lights of New York
City, and decided that The Great Gatsby looked
interesting
enough. Eager to please, I snatched the novel out of her hand and
thanked her for the suggestion. I shoved the book recklessly into my
backpack, inadvertently adding another crease to the cover.
That
evening, I rushed home, snuggled up under a blanket on the oversized
couch in our living room, and dug into the dog-eared pages of The
Great Gatsby. I tore through the novel, discovering it was a
quick and easy read thanks to Fitzgerald�s smooth and glamorous
writing. Within a few days, I had rushed through the entire book, and
I returned to Mrs. Cranston�s classroom with a feeling of
pride.
�I�ve
finished The Great Gatsby,� I mentioned nonchalantly
to
Mrs. Cranston after class. I tried to be as casual about it as
possible, as if I hadn�t sped-read the book in order to impress
her. �What�d you think? Isn�t Fitzgerald�s
critique of the American Dream so fascinating?� she questioned.
I nodded back, a smile on my face. But in reality, I was scared to
admit I was stupefied by her statements about Fitzgerald�s
style and confused by her comments about the yellow car as a symbol
of the unattainability of Gatsby�s dream. In fact, in my effort
to finish the novel quickly, I had barely considered the imagery of
Fitzgerald�s words or the depth of his characters at all.
�When
do you want to do your reading check?� Mrs. Cranston asked,
wrapping up her ramble on the themes and symbols of Fitzgerald�s
classic novel. The reading check was something we had to do for every
book we read for independent reading. We would sit down with Mrs.
Cranston and answer a few questions about our novel until she was
sure we actually read it. It usually never took longer than ten
minutes. We agreed that I would do the reading check after school
that day, and so at three o�clock, I climbed up the few flights
of stairs to the second floor and wandered into Mrs. Cranston�s
classroom. The usual smell of a pine-scented candle floated out of
her dimly lit room, and I could hear that she was listening to
Tchaikovsky. My heart was jumping about in my chest, my stomach
somersaulting across my abdomen. After our chat earlier that day, I
was filled with anxiety that I wouldn�t pass the reading check,
and I had never failed anything English-related before.
�Hi
Mrs. Cranston,� I began cautiously, �I�m here for
my reading check.�
�Excellent,
pull up a seat.�
Timidly,
I sat down in a rickety wooden chair in front of her desk. Her office
was piled high with papers, novels, style guides, and dictionaries,
separating my chair from hers with a wealth of knowledge. I tried to
gain some confidence as she fumbled around, searching for her grade
book in the litter of literature on her desk. Finally she pulled out
her book and a pencil, smiled at me, and asked her first question.
�What
was the color of the light on Daisy�s dock?� With that
simple question, my heart began to unwind from the nervousness I�d
built myself into before the meeting, my anxiety dissipating. I had
read the book closely enough after all; this first question was
obvious! Anyone who knew anything about The Great Gatsby
would
know that the light on Daisy�s dock was green. As Mrs. Cranston
plowed on with questions about Wilson�s garage and the eyes of
Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, I gained confidence. Though I stumbled over
my answers a few times, I felt assured that I was acing the check.
�Okay
Ceci, one more question,� Mrs. Cranston announced, �What
did Meyer Wolfsheim have on his watch when he met Nick for the first
time in the bar?�
My
mind was blank. What? Meyer Wolfsheim was wearing a watch? I leafed
through the pages of my memory, searching for snippets of the scene
in the bar with Nick, Gatsby, and Wolfsheim. I remembered the
character, the way he rigged the World Series, but I definitely
didn�t remember any watch. What could possibly be special about
a watch anyways? Most of the watches I could picture in my head were
simple, with only clear regular watch faces and plain leather
wristbands.
After
struggling for a while to come up with an answer, I responded with
dejection, �I�m sorry, I don�t know.�
�The
answer was human molars.� Mrs. Cranston swung her gradebook
shut and let out her trademark sigh that I would come to learn over
the years meant that I had disappointed her. �I think you need
to read the book again. It seems to me like you hardly read it.�
Incensed and embarrassed, I accepted defeat, grabbed The
Great
Gatsby, and left the room.
That
was the first time I remember strongly disliking Mrs. Cranston. Later
in high school, I took AP Literature with her and learned that she
could be even more harsh. I learned that she believed any grade
higher than an A minus was ridiculous (�nobody�s
perfect!�), that most people�s writing was beyond any
improvement, and that some people are just bad writers that can�t
be helped, those some people including me. By the time I got to
college, the thought of turning in any paper filled me with anxiety
and dread, thanks to years of being told that my writing was
insufficient.
But
through all the criticism, tears, and sighs of disappointment, I�ve
always returned to that reading check for The Great Gatsby.
It
seemed extremely unfair at the time that Mrs. Cranston failed my
reading check simply because I missed one question (she was wrong
about the watch, by the way. When I�ve reread the book over the
years, I�ve always marked that Wolfsheim had human molars on
his cufflinks, not his watch). But she was mainly right. I really
hadn�t read the book thoroughly at all. And in a way, I have
her to thank that The Great Gatsby is my favorite
book of all
time. It was that second read through that I stopped to really soak up
Fitzgerald�s language and symbolism and actually learned
something about the American Dream in modernist writing. So thanks,
Mrs. Cranston. Though I still strongly dislike you, I suppose I
really did learn something on your watch.
Many
writers and literature
lovers I know can look back to a teacher that inspired them to pursue
their dreams. While Mrs. Cranston never openly pushed me to become an
English major, she helped me learn how to accept criticism and face
the fact that I may not always be right. Mrs. Cranston was my ninth
grade English teacher, and she and I never really got along in high
school. She was the first teacher to fail me on anything
English-related, she often gave me bad grades on papers, and she
brought me to tears a couple times because my writing was not up to
her standards. But now that I�m in college, I�m noticing
that many of the things my professors correct in my papers are the
same things Mrs. Cranston tried to teach me through her criticism in
high school. �Wolfsheim�s Watch� is a piece
dedicated to the tough love I received from Mrs. Cranston that shaped
me into the writer I am today.
Ceci
Hughes is a rising junior at the College of William and Mary in
Williamsburg, Virginia. At William and Mary, Ceci is an English
Language and Literature major and a Music minor. She hopes to go into
the publishing or professional editing field after she graduates
college. When she�s not reading novels or writing papers for
class, Ceci enjoys singing with her friends in the Christopher Wrens
a cappella group or playing with her Golden Retriever, Penny.
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