Forging a new path.

How a little deviousness and surprising fine motor skills saved my Thanksgiving holidays as a kid.

Nov 25, 2024

Growing up, Thanksgiving was not among my favorite holidays. There are no presents, the food is weird and eaten at a strange time of the day and you don’t get a whole week of school off. One of the main reasons that I disliked Thanksgiving was that it always fell in the middle of the six-week grading period. Which meant the dreaded progress reports. Progress reports were sent home at three weeks to parents of students (like me) who were in danger of failing a class (or in my case, classes). Mind you, I rarely got a failing grade on my report card—I was able to wheedle, cajole, beg my teachers for makeup work and due date extensions, and pull out all of the last-minute ADHD hyperfocus stops to get a passing or even excellent grade, but I almost always had a progress report to take home right before Thanksgiving.

Template of an unsatisfactory progress report. — The bane of my existence.

You may ask, why was I always failing at least one subject at progress report time? At the time I had no idea that I had ADHD. Back in the eighties only the boys—and it was always boys that acted out repeatedly were tested for ADHD. I was not particularly disruptive and I was well-socialized and not given to outbursts, so I was not enough of an outlier to be singled out for testing. That said, I was out of my seat as much as humanly possible—sharpening my constantly breaking pencil leads* and taking as many trips to the bathroom or water fountain as possible. I needed to blow my nose several times each day. My shoes constantly needed re-tied. Something always needed to be looked for in my desk or locker. I always had the fidgets and could never get comfortable—especially when we had to sit on the ground for any length of time. These are all classic ADHD markers, but I was a good masker and actor so I did not get diagnosed until adulthood.

*I wrote with a very heavy hand and constantly and unintentionally broke the lead in my pencils. Unbeknownst to me I have a learning disability called dysgraphia which makes the physical act of writing difficult. The substance of my writing and the grammar and spelling were always graded highly, but I got atrocious marks for my handwriting. And my handwriting speed was (and still is) very slow. Upon my diagnosis in eighth grade, I was given accommodations like extra time on essays and tests that were not multiple choice. This and learning to type were major boons to the young Jeremy D. Nichols.

I always started the new six weeks strong—telling myself that this was the one where I would not struggle or fall behind in my studies. I would be diligent and pay attention to and complete the classwork that I was assigned. That I would finish it before it became homework. And if it did turn into homework, I would do it that day and not beg for mercy and extensions on due dates.

I would do this for about a week or so. But this attention and hypervigilance was unsustainable. The siren song of talking to my classmates, daydreaming, or drawing war scenes would beckon to me. “Just a little drawing time and then I’ll buckle down and do all of these worksheets and math problems.” “Just a little chat with Stephanie (who unlike me could talk and work at the same time) and then I’ll get right to that social studies essay.” “I’m just going to daydream for a minute about driving my girlfriend Brooke Shields around in my red Porsche 911 Carrera Targa with a whale tail spoiler and then I’ll work on these long division problems.”

I would also do what I now know to be dissociating for much of the day. By the third week, I would be failing at least one class and be sent home with a dreaded progress report that would have to be signed and returned to school by the Monday after Thanksgiving. I was given two choices:

I could give the progress report to my parents and ruin my Thanksgiving break by being grounded from things like going to the movies with Uncle Larry or having to do makeup work while on vacation. My parents would tell everyone in my extended family that I was struggling in school and then I could bask in the disappointment of three generations.
I could not give it to them and be in trouble with my teachers and after the inevitable phone call home in even bigger trouble with my parents.

Or I could forge a third path—FORGERY.

Crime was not my first choice, but after a couple of ruined Thanksgiving breaks and holiday break groundings, I decided to try my hand at forgery. At first, I thought that I would do my dad’s signature. I reasoned that my teachers had not seen his signature as often as my mom’s and would be less suspicious. Dad’s signature proved to be very difficult—too many differing angles and a mix of slapdash and precision befitting an engineer with an artistic streak. Also, I’m left-handed and could never quite get the pen at the correct angle. After many attempts on a couple of sheets of looseleaf notebook paper (which I quickly tore up and threw away), I gave up and tried Mom’s.

JACKPOT.

My mom writes in a clear and open hand. She’s a southpaw like me and has almost no slant to her writing—and what little there is was easy to duplicate. After just a few attempts on a new piece of notebook paper (also shredded into confetti and thrown away promptly) I was able to produce a reasonable facsimile of her John Hancock. Even though I was shaking with guilt, I took a few deep breaths and stilled my hand. Then I signed that progress report like hers was my very own signature. Easy peasy. Over forty years later I can still do it. They say that necessity is the mother of invention, but having a strong desire not to be punished made me a world-class liar and a fairly decent forger. Considering my problems with handwriting in general, I was kind of shocked by how easily I found duplicating my mom’s name. One day I will write a little play or short story about how being a forger saved the Thanksgiving holiday for a devious little boy. An anti-fairy tale about getting away with crime. To those who celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving.