Obituary For My Funnier Third-Grade Self
– Feeling humorless lately? Take solace. –
The following appeared in the obit section of a small Western U.S. newspaper.*
It is with great sorrow that Mark Cunningham announces the death of his funnier third-grade self. Those closest to Cunningham (his siblings, parents, and spouse) have long known of his fondness for his younger self. Many a time has Cunningham regaled them with 
nostalgic accounts of his days at the rear of Mrs. Barbieri’s classroom at Red Glen Elementary: the scrawny chestnut-haired student ensconced at his tattooed desk, surrounded by giggling girls and envious, head-shaking boys.
Cunningham’s current self, it might as well be admitted, is barely funny at all. Those who read his novels do not hesitate to label him downright dour. What funniness Cunningham strives to exhibit in passing moments to his in-laws, distant relations, or current associates, proves diffident and dry, and is often met with laughless bewilderment.
It’s precisely this sad turn of events that inspired the placement of this obituary. Should the following be read by a former third-grade classmate or two — someone who once squirmed spasmodically at the back of Mrs. Barbieri’s class of 1986, tense with laughter that threatened to induce a wetting of the pants — then the passing of Cunningham’s third-grade self might find its proper eulogy in joyful remembrance.
Cunningham’s third-grade self first met with distinction early in the school year — September or October of ‘86, it must have been — at Mrs. Barbieri’s inaugural show-and-tell. Anyone present at that hour will no doubt recall Cunningham’s debut as a witty youthful magician. As the bereaved elder Cunningham recalls, this exhibition involved colored scarves, a deck of playing cards, and a rope of thrillingly erratic lengths. The performance culminated unforgettably: a small red ball, the same object Cunningham had caused to vanish beneath a cup but moments before, appeared in Mrs. Barbieri’s desk drawer to the amazement of the whole class. A young boy’s winsome future could not be more assured in the span of three or four minutes.
For a time, Cunningham lived up to this auspicious beginning. In the remaining eight months of his third-grade career, the funny little fellow grew accustomed to the mantra of Mrs. Barbieri’s third-grade girls — three words wheezed in breathless hilarity: “YOU’RE SO FUNNY!” The triumph of that singular year is most fully attested by the unanimous commentary in Cunningham’s paper-and-paste classroom annual: ‘You crack me up!’; ‘I bet you’ll be a comedian!’; ‘Remember when I sprayed Tang all over my desk because you made me laugh so hard?’; ‘Stay funny, ‘kay?’
Such a crowning year, given the peerless light at its peak, throws other years into shadow. As the Samurai of old knew well, the moment of mastery is also the commencement of decline. So it was for Cunningham. Degree by degree, as the boy advanced through elementary school, junior high, and high school, his funnier self grew more timid, more colorless, quieter.
It’s hard to say exactly how such a thing occurs — what decisive moments account for it — but surely the loss of the funnier self is common to individuals everywhere. Cunningham’s mortification at two romantic fractures in his ninth- and tenth-grade years no doubt muted his funnier self all the more, as did his revolt, at age 14, from his protestant upbringing. And surely the young man’s impassioned reading of certain classic literature was of no small account — but such things, in the end, amount to mere speculation. By age 
twenty, Cunningham’s funnier third-grade self was verily forgotten amidst the clamor of his graver, more ardent, more prepossessing selves.
Still, with characteristic resilience, in moments of relaxation or late-night delirium, Cunningham’s third-grade self would now and then re-emerge with a flourish. On each such occasion, observers were surprised by the short-lived but sparkling delight this sober young man had furnished them. Later, such moments of effervescence became confined to evenings shared between Cunningham and his beloved wife. The most private theatre imaginable. While Cunningham’s newer friends, his in-laws and professional associates remained unsuspecting of the funnier third-grade self submerged within him, his wife was time and time again floored with glee, invariably visited by the toe-curling whimsy Cunningham had once provoked in Mrs. Barbieri’s third-grade lasses.
It was in the course of one such intermittent exhibition last week that Cunningham conclusively noted the moribund state of his third-grade self. Or, it might be said that for the first time he understood how deeply buried this funnier self had become in the course of twenty-odd years, how rarely it now appeared, and what an impossible feat it would be to resurrect this self completely. In that seminal moment, on an evening in his thirty-first year, Cunningham was unmistakably struck with the profound grief that signals the end to a part of oneself, and his wife felt called upon to console the bereft fellow.
Cunningham’s funnier third-grade self is survived by Cunningham in a more current, regretfully more serious amalgam of selves. He grieves alone. His wife is sympathetic. There will be no memorial service, as Cunningham fears he would be unable to muster appropriate funniness. He might accept flowers. He will let you know.
*not really.
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1 Comment to Obituary For My Funnier Third-Grade Self
Nice!