Over a year ago, I arrived at my daughter's house, where she took me and my suitcase into the study that is regularly converted into a guest bedroom. Like most studies or offices, it is lined with shelves, stacked with books. A convertible bed pops forth from the couch.
She pointed out that she had cleared the bottom shelf (eye level) of all books, photos and mementos, so that I would have plenty of room to put my stuff, for, she announced, "You are a spreader."
"A what?"
"A spreader." She then explained what should have been obvious. I didn't know whether to be insulted or complimented or if there was no need for neither.
I contemplated deeply this new idea that I was a spreader, and soon and easily, came to the conclusion that I was indeed-a spreader.
I thought back over the many projects I had undertaken while she lived under my roof. Always needed, a large open space. A roll of paper that extended as far and as wide as I needed to put together and put in order, the Cold War or Civil Rights or the Persian conquests. The links to a story couldn't be contained in a notebook or on a spreadsheet--no-- they had to be spread out and delineated to see the sequence and the big picture. To sort out the Book of Mormon, I needed to see the time line of the different people who traveled to the Americas in ancient times, and this could only be done by spreading out the details on a long sheet of paper, scotch taped around the walls of my study.
If I graded papers, no neat stacks, but instead the entire floor covered in piles of this assignment and that assignment. This was and always will be order to me.
Yet, it was still news to be labeled a spreader. As the days passed, so did my belongings spread throughout her study. A pile of shirts. Books. Computer. Long pants, short pants. Sweaters in this corner. Toothbrush and face cream. I was like a one woman band with keyboard at the center, drums to the left, percussion to the right, a xylophone right behind.
When I traveled home, I continued to be surprised by how I spread. At least six books and a few notebooks in my reading nook in the living room. At least six books and other paraphernalia on the nightstand. On the floor of my study, a box, a backpack, a stack of paper to be recycled.
I became more conscious. I stacked the books in the living room. I would pick up and corner the backpack and the paper. I would shuffle the paraphernalia into one of the drawers. I would work harder to hang up my clothes.
And then I started noticing other spreaders. Most easily were the students who came into class, chose a seat next to an empty seat, placed their water bottle on the empty seat, their notebook on the floor, their backpack in between, and their sweater flung out even farther from the core position. During lunch, when the room lost its specific purpose and lounging was more allowed, the spreaders were even more apparent.
I was not alone.
I could have started a club for spreaders. Sometimes I would say to a student whose surroundings were everything she had dumped in the surrounding space, "Oh you're a spreader too." I would get that same quizzical look that I gave my daughter when she first pronounced that I was a spreader. But I had found my people and I wanted them to know they were not alone.
I was nonchalant about the identification. "You're a spreader," was a simple statement equal to, "You have red hair," or "You made an important contribution to the discussion." "Today is Monday. " I didn't think much of it, until one day, I asked a fellow student after the first end-of-lunch-bell rang and within minutes I would be starting class.
"To whom does all this stuff belong?"
"Oh that's Kelsey's, she's a spreader."
The idea had spread.
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