Case in point: Even though I have what I call schizophrenic handwriting, the kind that changes angle and size and direction all in one sentence, by the time I was in eighth grade I became fairly expert at forging two signatures. First was my mother’s. I was never tempted to forge it in serious fiduciary documents. It was purely used to write excuses for missing school. I might add that I had my mother’s permission to forge her name. More often than not we just plain forgot that we had to turn in an excuse after an absence until I had arrived at school the next morning. That’s when I pulled out a little piece of paper and scribbled:
“Please excuse Corinne from school yesterday. She was sick.”, followed by what I thought was a perfect impersonation of my mother’s beautifully fluid handwriting.
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| Sadly, I have lost my touch with my mom's signature. |
I wonder if anyone ever in the whole wide world ever believed it was actually her signature. Here’s hoping they didn’t really look very hard.
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| Mrs. Tucci was a tiny powerhouse. |
Anyway, the second name I learned to forge was Mrs. Tucci, our middle school choir director. It was Mrs. Tucci, all four feet eleven of her, that gave me my voice. At least she held up the auditory mirror and helped me find it. The first week of school in eighth grade I mustered the courage to audition for the Mini-Singers. The Mini-Singers were the cool hip cats of the middle school, at least in my circle. For two whole years, in sixth and seventh grade, I looked at the kids who were Mini-Singers and stared secretly, trying to analyze what it took to be so cool, hoping against all odds that one day I could be…that. So I scribbled my schizophrenic signature on the audition sheet, trying on purpose to make it somewhat illegible, cuz if people knew I tried out and didn’t make it, then the not cool factor would increase considerably. The big bass drum planted in my chest pumped away as I stood beside the blond upright piano sitting on wheels in the center of the choir room. I stood on the back side of the piano, Mrs. Tucci’s black short cropped head of hair barely peeking over the top of the piano box. She raised one hand to indicate it was time to sing, and in spite of the drum corps in my chest I let the song rise out of me.
Two days later, waiting for a moment when the hallway was clear of all humans, I slipped over to the posting outside the choir room. Twenty names typed in small pale typewriter print, not in alphabetical order, but assigned by musical sections. There in the soprano section I found it: Cori Hansen. That old drummer inside started a rolling snare and I turned and walked away, my books pressed against my thumping chest, my footsteps increasing their pace as I moved to homeroom. Later, in the hall between classes, someone called out to me: “Cori Hansen, Mini-Singers!” I tell ya, I’m many decades old now, and have had some pretty magical things happen, but the recalled feeling of that moment rises right up to the top. I wonder if my angels knew what was ahead for me.
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| That's me, 4th from the left. |
So eighth grade turned into a pretty magical year for me, school-wise. I’m not talking grade-wise, if you catch my drift. But that year I started learning guitar in the guitar club after school, and Mr. Cameron, who volunteered to teach us guitar, spent many mornings in his small office teaching Betsy Gerson and me how to finger pick Blackbird and Vincent and Dust in the Wind.
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| Mrs. T in the middle, Mr. Cameron far right. |
My new found coolness gave me the sense of self that allowed me to sit against the lockers with Betsy and work through Gordon Lightfoot songs. Mrs. Tucci became Mrs. T. Her office became home base for us Mini-Singers. (Yes, indeed, we girls wore mini-skirts in performances.) We wove in and out, like friends in a coffee shop. Mrs. T taught Betsy and me how to forge her signature so we could mass produce late excuses for her choir kids. We were a machine. To this day I can close my eyes and scratch out the signature of Ida Tucci.
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| I forged I. Tucci a lot more than Afton Hansen. I've still got the touch, if I say so myself. |
I still can’t believe Mrs. T brought us into her inner circle, teaching us how to forge, giving us free reign of her office. That was our last year of Middle School. We were off to TJ High after that and, I’m sorry to say, it was generally downhill from there.
Thinking back on it, I never did feel pangs of guilt for forging signatures for either of those women. It’s probably because they knew I was not likely to abuse the gifted power. I wasn’t one to skip school or skip class.
But late, I was. And I still am.
Nonetheless, I forge ahead!
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| For thirteen seconds I was a cool hip cat. |
