Formative Moments: A Godzilla-Sized Gesture of Kindness
An anecdote about a giant monster-loving girl and her Catholic school contraband
Godzilla rampages through Hong Kong in Godzilla vs. Destoroyah (1995), Toho Studios
Not Quite One Score Ago…
The year was 2009. Grade two.
Seven-year-old me was attending my third (technically fourth, if you count pre-school) year at a private Catholic institution in my humble Eastern Washington hometown.
A lonely kid who'd been enrolled in the school for a perceived higher-quality education, more so than Catholic teachings—my family is Protestant—I struggled to connect with my peers and spent many recesses either walking disciplinary laps around the baseball field or inside receiving math tutoring (newsflash: I never did get better at math).
My second-grade teacher understood that I faced social challenges and had grown up largely disconnected from my father. He would speak with me at recess on those rare occasions I wasn't assigned mandatory laps, asking me about things I loved, like Godzilla, and encouraging me to read above my grade level because "I know you can."
"Why are you still reading the Berenstain Bears?" he once asked. "You should go for something more challenging." If I remember correctly, he even suggested I try my hand at Jurassic Park (1990).
You can’t convince me this isn’t one of America’s finest families
While browsing the bookshelves at our little school library during a class visit, I happened upon a book in the science fiction section even greater than Jurassic Park: a title bearing the face and name of the ultimate dinosaur, and my childhood hero, Godzilla.
The book was called Godzilla Invades America (1997), by American fiction author Scott Ciencin. Unbeknownst to seven-year-old me, it belonged to a series of Godzilla books published by Random House in the 1990s. All I knew was that it combined two things I thought were completely awesome: Godzilla and my home country.
My immediate thought after surfacing from the dopamine tide that flooded my brain was, What is this book doing in my school? Then: How have I never heard of it before? Seven-year-old Alyssa knew everything about Godzilla! (Or so she believed; she had lots of cool things left to learn.)
My second-grade teacher, who had once printed me that now-popular image of Godzilla floating beneath the Titanic—I kept the piece of copy paper taped up in my bedroom for years after—noticed my golden find and said, "Tell you what. You can check the book out and keep it; just don't tell anyone."
This illustration by Jean-Pierre Normand adorned my bedroom bookshelf throughout my entire childhood
I can't recall whether my teacher okayed this with the librarians. I was just thrilled to have the book. Godzilla material didn't abound in the noughties as it does now, making a find like Godzilla Invades America, especially in 2009 and on the shelves of a Catholic school library, feel like discovering a small slice of land in the wide-open ocean.
It marked another piece of my favorite thing ever to which I could cling when peer interactions inevitably worsened, or I shuffled off once more to the principal's office for a reprimand or phone call home.
Godzilla was my thing. No one could take that from me, including my family, who didn't care much for it but couldn't extinguish the obsession.
Unfortunately, I took Godzilla Invades America away from myself.
This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Too excited about the book to keep my mouth shut, I ended up running it in front of the wrong people—and promptly got reported to the library. They confiscated my book, and my displeased teacher asked why I'd gone around yapping about it (he used nicer language than that). I don't remember my answer, but that day, I learned that I was the reason I couldn't have nice things!
It didn't really matter, though. My teacher indulging my monster mania left its mark.
The Moral of This Story
You might think the lesson in this anecdote is obvious: don't broadcast your crimes (or your teacher's, for that matter, assuming he'd committed one). Or "a silent thief is the only good thief."
I hold this memory differently.
In reality, it was never about the book. It wasn't even about Godzilla or permanently borrowing from my school's library. I carry this memory because it represented a moment in my life when someone really saw me, not just the difficult student or the chronic lap-walker.
That day, my teacher proved again that, instead of the girl who constantly disrupted class with her incessant talking, had problems fitting in with her peers, and struggled with basic math, he understood Alyssa the person.
This is something I'll never forget.
Reacquainted after 17 years—courtesy of my friend Jack
The Cost of Kindness
It's been said that kindness is free. I would argue differently. It costs energy and awareness to give the form of kindness I was given, and as the recipient, it is priceless beyond measure.
I've had other such people in my life who witnessed my worth and buoyed my spirits. I call them godsends. Without them, I might not be the person I am today.
Not everyone you encounter will respect who you are. That's okay. When you find the people who do, hold a reverent place for them in the halls of your memory; they will guide you when it's your turn to do the giving.
God bless you, Dave Biggers. You were a real one.
