By Kevin Brockmeier
At age twelve, Kevin Brockmeier is able to turn into a unique individual: no longer the boy he has constantly been--the one that cries too simply and laughs too simply, who lives in an otherland of glowing daydreams and imaginary catastrophes--but another person altogether.
Over the process one university year--seventh grade--he units out looking for himself. alongside the way in which, he occurs into his first kiss at a church occasion, struggles to appreciate why his previous acquaintances tease him on the lunch desk, turns into the debate of the whole university because of his Halloween dress, and booby-traps his lunch to discourage a thief.
With an identical deep feeling and oddly dreamlike precision which are the hallmarks of his fiction, the acclaimed novelist now explores the dream of his personal prior and recovers the individual he used to be.
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Extra resources for A Few Seconds of Radiant Filmstrip: A Memoir of Seventh Grade
At school I daydreamed about a few of my female classmates and wondered what it would be like to kiss them. I soon learned. There were a number of birthday parties that year, and they often included the game of spin the bottle, in which one could (and sometimes did) end up kissing one of these fantasy girls. It was very exciting! The only disadvantage of knowing them better was that they sometimes shattered my vision of them as sweet, pure angels. ” As a little prude, I was shocked and repelled by this behavior.
Born on September 18, 1948, in Brooklyn, Debbie grew up to be blond, attractive, and—luckily for her—fluent in speech. As I was more than seven years her senior, I was often expected to play the role of a mature big brother, which included tolerating her occasionally irritating behavior and babysitting for her. Also, the substantial gap between our ages meant that during our childhoods we never became playmates or peers. These factors, coupled with some sibling rivalry and my own shyness, prevented us from being as close as we ideally might have been.
Once there, we would split up and see whom we met. Somehow or other, overcoming my shyness, I did manage to meet someone: a cute, dark-haired Italian-American girl. I even went so far as to ask her for her phone number—considered a major step in those 29 30 Brooklyn Boyhood, 1941–1958 days—and she, in turn, was willing enough to give it to me. For a while, I didn’t have the nerve to phone her and ask for a date. But, ultimately, I did and—at the age of sixteen—went out on a date for the first time.