The Riddle in the Front Row

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When he handed me his first in-class writing for a composition class, Keenan explained that he had dysgraphia—a condition caused by slower-than-normal development of his small-muscle coordination. I skimmed his paper. The letters, huge and blocky like a child’s, sprawled erratically across the pages.

“I’ve had many problems,” he said. This was evident in his palpable isolation from other students and the slash scars on his forearms. His obese face was peppered with pimples, his nose bridge pushed in, and his lips blubbery. He waddled with splayed feet and wore dirty clothes.

He continued, “I have neutralized most of my problems. I am too smart to let handwriting pull me down. I always study hard and know a lot.”

I tried to believe him, but his pronouncement sounded like a mixture of good intentions and blind hope.

At first the class snickered at his raspy voice. They soon stopped, and I paid closer attention. Politics, etymology, women’s rights, energy issues—Keenan knew his stuff and displayed it. Classes often rally behind students with disabilities, but Keenan’s class loathed him. He flouted a fundamental principle of social mythology: that intelligence correlates with hygiene, manners, likability, and looks. The repulsive are supposed to be dull and cringingly apologetic, but Keenan offered no shy, pleading smiles to hang sympathy on. He didn’t give a damn if the other students liked him. He scratched his crotch as he walked, and his unshampooed hair resembled a ragged carpet swatch. When he sneezed without covering his nose, as he often did, it sounded like a tub of margarine exploding. Yet he was the only one in class who knew who Harold Stassen was, the story of Isaac and Abraham, and what John L. Lewis meant for unions.

Here was a teacher’s dilemma: a sharp brain wedded to an offensive person. I appreciated his participation, but Keenan occasionally paused during perceptive comments to snuffle phlegm loudly in his throat, after which he would moan a contented “Ah!” Irritated once too often, I nitpicked one of his responses. Even as I sensed the class’s approval, I hated my petty retaliation, my willingness to join the mob. Surely I could get beyond his rude quirks. I was ashamed.

Still, Keenan’s refusal to conform to ordinary decency puzzled me. Why antagonize people predisposed not to like him? Why not blend in as best he could? No, that was more social mythology. What could he do about his misshapen face? He must have been mercilessly teased and abused for years. Perhaps he simply could socialize no better. Maybe he had decided to behave as he wanted, realizing that he would never be liked, no matter how “nice” he tried to be.

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