memoirs of an abnormal personality

I.

He was girlish and flashy, downright impish and I knew that when he shoved his arms together to make little fleshy titties that it didn’t matter that he had a penis. He loved that boy on the playground as much as I loved mine and we were going to play Hawaiian pig. Hawaiian pig was a name of our chase the boys game. He made the name up and as I sat in the principal’s office trying to explain why I had chased the blue eyed boy, grabbed his arm, and somehow completely ripped the sleeve off his flannel shirt, the wall between adult and child understanding seemed insurmountable. Embarrassing didn’t describe the emotion. Embarrassing was forgetting how to say the pledge of allegiance when it was your turn to say it over the intercom to the entire school. Embarrassing was being the only kid in third grade with one sticker on your spelling star and knowing you got it only because your favorite teacher felt sorry for you. (He was an artist)

As I sat, looking at the stern man behind the desk, I contemplated just walking out of the school. I lived across the street. Home was a universe away and a sanctuary in its lack of bridge to this world. I would escape into make believe like I always did. In third grade, I may not have had the words fuck this shit formed in my mind, but fuck this shit was conceived there, in that chair, waiting. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t remember if he was even mad. I don’t remember if he had talked to my mom. I don’t remember any of it.

But, I do recall the flush of rage, being sent back to class and the embryo of fuck this shit kicking in my skull and pushing the right side of the school front door wide open.

Whoooooooooooooosh.

The bright sun, the churning of my stomach and the quick steps of my feet moved me strait to my front door. Fuck this shit I was home.

II.

A brown pinstriped short sleeve shirt tucked into polyester slacks is not enough to be repulsed by a man. Nor is greasy hair, thick glasses and bad breath. But repulsed I was. What was it? It wasn’t his muggy sweat circles in his armpits that streamed wide and deep until they met and seeped where his belly tucked into his belt. It was more than the fact that he waddled when he walked and dragged his feet along in lazy scratches. More than the shiny greasy sheen his skin took on after an hour of conducting middle school concert band. None of these surface observations repulsed me. What did, was the fact, that he thought he could reach me.

That day was like any other until my head exploded within one of his lecture rants directed at the clarinets. His greasy lips shot spit as he taunted that I might lose my first chair position when I was playing third chair quality. I felt the snap. The internal bang.

Ta-ta-ta.

Ta-ta-ta

Ta-ta-ta

Hours of ta-ta-ta

And I loved it sitting in my room alone with my music

Ta-ta-ta

Ta-ta-ta

A fuck this shit cloud is what I remember as the slide of fuck you asshole from my lips surrounded thirty eighth graders in a combination of joy, shock and hell yeah. Yeah, fuck you asshole. I am sick of your ranting bullshit. We are doing the best we fucking can here. Fuck. This. shit.

And tears…

Then the door, the shove, the light, the walk home

The next day, he pulled me aside. I hate(d) that pathetic concerned look people place over their own manipulative intentions and fears

hey, I didn’t report you to the principal. (Supposed to be grateful) Is everything O.k. at home? Do you need to talk about anything? (Come sit in my office little girl) This was out of character for you.

I don’t remember what I said, but I am sure it was an apology of sorts and a no, everything is just great spiel. I knew I was supposed to think he was a great guy now that he had compassion for his students, compassion for me, but all I could manage to think the rest of that year was fuck this shit.