The Thump Keg

Everyone in the classroom was aware that the new girl was different. They had all grown up in the area around Charlottesville, a rather affluent area with Southern manners, rolling green countryside, country estates and horses. She moved here from a broken home in Washington, D.C. to live in Albemarle County with her grandmother. She wore a black, leather jacket with gang slogans stenciled across the back. Her language was crude and out of place. Most students ignored her. Once when I rearranged the seating, one of the boys refused to move where I assigned him. Later he told me privately that he refused because he didn’t want to sit next to a Negro. It was 1968. As time went on, the new girl’s sullenness began to soften. Her schoolwork improved. She began to smile and reflect enthusiasm in class. I attributed the change to the influence of living with her grandmother. Once when I asked a question, she excitedly raised her hand and said, “I know! I know!” One of the white boys rem...

Whenever I would ask my grandfather about the war, he would clam up like a spy. Actually, he really was a spy. Grandma would then begin showing me his military photographs, how he learned the language, how he arrived in Germany and, of course, happily show off his medals. At the age of 12 I wanted to know what it was really like in the war. But Grandpa would only wave his hand at the TV, as if to say, watch “Seventeen Moments of Spring.” I would watch, be impressed, and then ask again, “But tell me something about you.” Silence. He drank habitually, like all of his war-time buddies from the front lines. And then it seemed he would begin to feel better. He would begin to smile and cut out paper swans for me. Apparently the port wine helped him for a while to forget what was terrible to remember. Then I, taking advantage of the moment, would ask him again about the war, and again I would not receive an intelligent answer. Jordan Petersen, a professor of psychology at the Universit...