Every afternoon, Ms. Cooper would glide the tips of her third and fourth fingers along the depression of thick, slimy Vaseline jelly in the plastic tub on her desk. She would share the goop with the same fingers on her other hand by massaging the tips together. Then she’d smooth the yellowish-brown waxy oil onto her face in big, circular motions around her eyes, making her thin, naturally rose-tinted skin supple and shiny. She’d smile quietly to herself, pop the jelly tub shut with a hollow burp sound, slide her round, pink-framed glasses up onto her skinny nose, and prepare for her afternoon classes. I’d never seen a woman rub petroleum jelly on her skin before, and it seemed gross, but fascinating. I was 10.

Ms. Cooper was my teacher for 4th and 5th grade, and I was one of her star pupils. I would return from lunch early, sit at my desk, and stare as my strawberry-blond teacher performed her afternoon beauty practice. I felt unique and exceptional to bear witness to what felt like a private, grown-up moment, though she was sitting at her big wooden desk at the head of the classroom, not in a personal space. It was ritual, not intimate, and I studied the practice like I was a 10-year-old following an eyeshadow tutorial in Cosmo —attentive and baffled.

“Will you help me correct tests today, Alison?” my glistening teacher inquired.

A lightning strike of pride and nerves jolted through my body.

School becomes more challenging in 4^th and 5^th grades, and I understood the format, methodology, and impetus to succeed. I would not hold on to this language of education for long, as my high school grades were disastrous, and I think of these years with Ms Cooper as a time where I felt non-negotiably confident in my abilities.

“Yes! I’d love to help!” I belted out, tucking my long, brown hair behind my ears to get into serious teacher’s assistant mode.

I don’t remember if the test was one that I had gotten 100% on, so that I would use my test as the guide, or if she gave me a guide sheet to follow, but the tests were simple A, B, C choice questions and easy to mark right or wrong. She handed me a red felt-tip pen, which I regarded as vitally powerful as a knighting sword.

I lined the slim stack of tests next to the test guide on my small, wood and metal wrap-around desk and eagerly uncapped the pen. On the first test, I saw that the first answer was correct, and I drew a big red squiggly check mark next to it.

“Now, Alison,” Ms. Cooper admonished. “The rules are that you only put exes on the wrong choices. If someone gets a question correct, you don’t write anything on the page. No check marks, please, only exes.”

This felt disappointing, as it meant that I would get to write on the tests much less than I had originally thought.

“Hmmmm,” I responded. “Ok, I guess so.” I nodded, my eyes not leaving the test in front of me.

I scratched out the check mark, disappointed with myself for the messy red blotch on the page, and scanned for wrong responses. There were none on this test. My heart sank. I put that paper at the bottom of the stack.

On the next sheet, I quickly found an incorrect answer. I beamed up at Ms. Cooper after carefully penning a big red X on the mimeographed test paper. Feelings of importance, trust, and pride swirled around my little body. By retaining my help, Ms. Cooper had empowered me. I felt smart. I felt useful. I felt seen.

But my superhero cape flapping in the wind behind me soon settled, as many of my peers were also outstanding pupils, and their tests received no marks.

Something in me changed at that moment. I wanted to do a good job, but I thought I couldn’t prove I was doing a good job unless there were exes on the papers. I started to hope for my peers to fail so that I could participate. I prayed for mistakes. Please let this friend screw up, please, please.

No, I didn’t write in exes where they didn’t belong. I don’t cave to the dark side that easily. But I think about that day more and more as I look at how the thrill of negative commentary has become our society’s dominating form of interaction. Everyone wants to wield the red pen of corrections so that they can prove they exist. So they can participate. So that they can feel seen.

At 10 years old, I had no concept of how much the red pen stimulated my dopamine receptors, but I do now. “Proving” that other people are wrong has become habitual in our society, and not that much fun when you get beyond the momentary dopamine thrill.

Maybe the addiction is too big to change now, but it’s worth considering. Think of that little girl, unable to cheer for her smart friends because of an unexplainable momentary high.

Put your red pen down. Eat a chip and this dip. Other pleasure centers will be stimulated, I promise.

Cotija Corn Dip

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 2 garlic cloves, chopped
• 1/2 serrano chili (seeded for less heat or just leave as is for more heat), chopped
• 1 medium red onion, chopped
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon agave
• 2 cups corn (I frequently use frozen white corn, but fresh corn can be shucked right off the cob now that it’s corn season)
• 1 lime, juiced
• ½ cup sour cream
• 3 tablespoons mayonnaise
• 3 teaspoons Aleppo chili powder
• ¾ cup cotija cheese, crumbled
• ¼ cup cilantro, chopped

1. Heat the olive oil in a small pot over a medium flame.  Add the chopped garlic, serrano chili, and red onion, and sprinkle in the salt. Sitr in the agave and cook until the onion has softened a bit, about 10 minutes. Turn the heat up and add the corn. Sauté for 2 minutes until the corn has taken on a bit of color, but before it becomes mushy.
2. Put the corn mixture into a large bowl and stir in the lime juice, sour cream, mayonnaise, Aleppo pepper, and cotija cheese. Then stir in the cilantro.
3. You can serve it like this or put it into the microwave for 2 minutes to meld the flavors and melt the cheese a bit.  

Here I am on KATU’s Afternoon Live making this dish. Just click on the pic!