If I thought the exterior of my new school was foul, then nothing could have prepared me for what lurked inside. Essentially, I had been ripped away from a mainstream, modern, well-lit facility and placed in a trailer home with dark wood paneling (walnut I believe) and surfaces that would forever be covered in dust. There was a persistent, ever-present odor as well. At the time I didn't know how to properly describe it, but if it were a cologne, I'd call it Incontinence by Calvin Klein.
It was all so unexpected, and so disappointing. After all, I had been told that this was the place that would forever change me as a student. I would finally be the child my parents always wanted, but how could anyone be expected to accomplish such a task in a place that smells like ass? Who has that kind of focus? Even at nine years of age I knew I didn't. They clearly thought I was someone else.
Within minutes of my arrival, I took my seat, and I was given a 4 x 6 lined index card that noted various subjects and assignments. These cards were referred to as contracts. Doesn't Satan use those? I was then told to highlight each task as it was completed, and have the contract turned in within a four week period. Upon return, Mrs. Boyd graded our work, and then another contract was issued. Clearly, there was to be no individualized, personalized, or customized education within these walls. My parents were fools. What I wasn't told was that for every mistake I made I would be terrorized in one way or another. Why didn't someone think of this before? Children don't require actual instruction, they just need a list, a yellow highlighter, and emotional waterboarding to get them to succeed. So simple. So effortless. So unfortunate.
Initially, my interactions with Mrs. Boyd were mildly pleasant and brief. Very professional. While the other children were being threatened and initmidated, I kept my nose in a book and rarely spoke, but like any relationship, there comes a time when the masks come off, and the gloves go on, and thirty years later you find yourself sitting in front of a computer, blogging about it because it was just that awful, and therapy is just too damn expensive.
Early on, Mrs. Boyd's abusive behavior was an amazing thing to behold, and I started to look forward to it the way I did an episode of the Incredible Hulk; however, Mrs. Boyd brought more excitement because the Hulk was just an hour long show, and I had her for at least eight hours a day, five days a week. If only I had some Nutter Butters to enjoy while I watched.
Whenever angered, Mrs. Boyd's face would turn a deep, purplish red. Her nostrils would flare, and her lower jaw would then thrust forward giving her the appearance not unlike that of my shih-tzu, Muffin. Only difference being that Muffin wasn't preparing to eat someone's face off, she just wanted a milk bone. Mrs. Boyd's already bulging eyes would swell and become bloodshot. She would then leap from her chair, grab the instigator (the poor child) by the lower jaw while violently shaking their face, and would scream at them at full capacity. This would then cause the child to sob uncontrollably, wet themselves, and then spend the remainder of the day sitting in their own pee. Now, how is that for entertainment? Unlike the other children in the class, and as a credit to my penchant for drama, my first incident with the Boyd-ster would be far more theatrical just without wigs. I love a good wig.
It was a particularly cold day, just a few weeks into my internment, and I was obsessing over my dry hands. I hated dry hands the way others hate nails on a chalkboard. The only thing I despise more is velvet. Mama loved velvet. She adored it so much that she had every sofa, chair, and pillow reupholstered in velvet. It makes my skin crawl, my toes curl, and I have an uncontrollable urge to stick out my tongue. It looks more like a seizure as opposed to an aversion. So, in a vain attempt to keep my hands from drying out I would repeatedly wash them. Lotion? No. Men didn't use lotion. My father would have turned the hose on me if he ever found me greasing up with Mama's Vaseline Intensive Care. Not an option. I did think about licking them, but that was just obscene, so I would wash incessantly.
The classroom sink was just about ten feet to the left of my desk, and with me in the back of the classroom, I thought I might be able to make multiple trips without drawing any attention. A perfect plan.
The first visit to the sink went unnoticed. At least I assumed so, as Mrs. Boyd was entranced by an issue of People magazine, while she worked over a Baby Ruth as if it was going to propose to her. Normally, a good sign, but not on this day.
As I approached the sink for a second time, Mrs. Boyd yelled out, "What do you think you're doing? Sit down!" I began to answer her, because she did ask, and being asked, it would have been rude of me not to answer. It's just how I was raised; however, there was no time for Southern charm as she was already turning purple, the jaw was set, and the eyes were preparing to launch from their sockets.
As my lips were just forming a reply, she vaulted from behind her desk, and plowed her way towards me. Seeing this, I broke into a sprint and landed in my chair. It was instinct. What nine year old wouldn't bolt at the sight of some huge, raving posterior with unbelievably huge optical organs, lurching towards them at maximum velocity?
She was screaming the entire distance to my desk, "Don't you dare talk back to me! I TOLD YOU TO SIT DOWN!"
And as she wailed those words, she thrust out her arms, grabbed hold of my desk, and with all her farmhand, peasant-like might she sent the desk into my chest, and propelled me and the desk into the wall behind me. I caught my breath, and looked up to see her walking away. She was muttering something about who was going to do what, and when, and threw in such timely musings like, "not on my watch" and "you think you can just come in here and talk to me like that?" all while her enormous buttocks careened side to side, and her brown polyester pants strained to contain her. She was like some beastly, steroidal baboon so proud of re-establishing the pecking order.
When she sat her fat ass down, I let myself cry, but I found some consolation in knowing that my Mama would not let this woman get away with what she had done. I only had to wait until three o'clock, and the world would be right again. This would be my last day at this so called Christian institution.
The other children stared at me in pity, but not with disbelief. This was nothing new. I wasn't special. This was their everyday, and now mine.
To Be Continued...
Rob, this is great. Epic even. I could smell that trailer! Keep 'em coming!
ReplyDelete-Matthew Ulm