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This document tells the story of david sedaris's experience with a speech therapist, agent samson, who mistakes his lisp for a lack of interest in college sports. The story takes place in north carolina and revolves around the athletic rivalry between state and carolina universities. Sedaris, who has no interest in sports, is forced to pretend to support state university to avoid being labeled as different. The interaction between sedaris and agent samson leads to a series of misunderstandings and reveals her true nature as a college football fan and a struggling speech teacher.
Typology: Schemes and Mind Maps
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"David," the teacher said, "this is Miss Samson, and she'd like you to go with her now." No one else had been called, so why me? I ran down a list of recent crimes, looking for a conviction that might stick. Setting fire to a reportedly flameproof Halloween costume, stealing a set of barbecue tongs from an unguarded patio, altering the word on a list of rules posted on the gymnasium door; never did it occur to me that I might be innocent. "You might want to take your books with you," the teacher said. "And your jacket. You probably won't be back before the bell rings." Though she seemed old at the time, the agent was most likely fresh out of college. She walked beside me and asked what appeared to be an innocent and unrelated question: "So, which do you like better, State or Carolina?" She was referring to the athletic rivalry between the Triangle area's two largest universities. Those who cared about such things tended to express their allegiance by wearing either Tar Heel powder blue, or Wolf Pack red, two colors that managed to look good on no one. The question of team preference was common in our part of North Carolina, and the answer supposedly spoke volumes about the kind of person you either were or hoped to become. I had no interest in football or basketball but had learned it was best to pretend otherwise. If a boy didn't care for barbecued chicken or potato chips, people would accept it as a matter of personal taste, saying, "Oh well, I guess it takes all kinds." You could turn up your nose at the president or Coke or even God, but there were names for boys who didn't like sports. When the subject came up, I found it best to ask which team my questioner preferred. Then I'd say, "Really? Me, too!" Asked by the agent which team I supported, I took my cue from her red turtleneck and told her that I was for State. "Definitely State. State all the way." It was an answer I would regret for years to come. "State, did you say?" the agent asked. "Yes, State. They're the greatest."
"I see." She led me through an unmarked door near the principal's office, into a small, windowless room furnished with two facing desks. It was the kind of room where you'd grill someone until they snapped, the kind frequently painted so as to cover the bloodstains. She gestured toward what was to become my regular seat, then continued her line of questioning. "And what exactly are they, State and Carolina?" "Colleges? Universities?" She opened a file on her desk, saying, "Yes, you're right. Your answers are correct, but you're saying them incorrectly. You're telling me that they're colleg eth and univeritie th, when actually they're college s and univer s itie s. You're giving me a th sound instead of a nice clear s. "Can you hear the di s tinction between the two different s sound s ?" I nodded. "May I plea s e have an actual an s wer?" "Uh-huh." " 'Uh-huh' i s not a word." "Okay." "Okay what?" "Okay," I said. "Sure, I can hear it." "You can hear what, the di s tinction? The contra s t?" "Yeah, that." It was the first battle of my war against the letter s, and I was determined to dig my foxhole before the sun went down. According to Agent Samson, a s tate c ertified s peech therapi s t," my s was sibilate, meaning that I lisped. This was not news to me.
"I wa s in Memphi s la s t year when N C State whooped Georgia fourteen to s even in the Liberty Bowl," she said. "And next year, I don't care who' s playing, but I want to be s itting front-row c enter at the Tangerine Bowl. Have you ever been to Orlando? It's a super fun pla c e. If my future hu s band can find a job in hi s field, we're hoping to move down there within a year or two. Me living in Florida. I bet that would make you happy, wouldn't it?" I didn't quite know how to respond. Who was this college bowl fanatic with no mixer and a fiancé in Vietnam, and why had she taken so long to reveal herself? Here I'd thought of her as a cold-blooded agent when she was really nothing but a slightly dopey, inexperienced speech teacher. She wasn't a bad person, Miss Samson, but her timing was off. She should have acted friendly at the beginning of the year instead of waiting until now, when all I could do was feel sorry for her. "I tried my be s t to work with you and the other s , but s ometime s a per s on's be s t ju s t i s n't good enough." She took another cookie and turned it over in her hands. "I really wanted to prove my s elf and make a differen c e in people's live , but it's hard to do your job when you're met with s o much re s i s tan c e. My student s don't like me, and I gue ss that's ju s t the way it i s. What can I s ay? A s a s peech teacher, I'm a complete failure." She moved her hands toward her face, and I worried that she might start to cry. "Hey, look," I said. "I'm th orry." "Ha-ha," she said. "I got you." She laughed much more than she needed to and was still at it when she signed the form recommending me for the following year's speech therapy program. "Thorry, indeed. You've got some work ahead of you, mi s ter." I related the story to my mother, who got a huge kick out of it. "You've got to admit that you really are a sucker," she said. I agreed but, because none of my speech classes ever made a difference, I still prefer to use the word chump.