Evil Teacher, Bad Me

Third grade was a turning point for me. It was when I stopped being “normal” and started becoming everyone’s favorite joke. I don’t know why that happened; it just did. I think much if it has to do with my evil teacher.

At the moment I cannot remember that teacher’s name. I remember she was older, graying hair, a stern look and very old fashioned. And she was cruel. By the end of the year she had transformed me into the joke. I’d be treated mostly like shit by many students from then on. Some kept being assholes to me all the way to high school. And yes, many of us went all the way through school together. I rarely got any relief.

Strings

The first thing I remember was the teacher sending a letter home to my mother. When she read it she was pissed. The teacher had told my mother that I needed to bathe more often because “I smelled bad.” It was a crock of shit, I was plenty clean, so I don’t know where she got the idea. My mother got up in her case about. That could have been the catalyst that caused everything else to follow.

The next event I remember was the day I was sitting at my desk, tugging at the loose strings on the top of my socks. It was a kind of habit I had. Ms. Evil Teacher told me to stop doing that. “Yes ma’am.” But like I said, it was a habit. I did it again. The teacher got pissed. She called me to the front and summoned the principal, a bear of a man with a less-than-cordial attitude towards students.

When the principal arrived, the teacher explained my disobedience. He told me to follow him. When we got in the hall he put his hand on my head as if to guide me. It occurred to me I was going for a paddling. I thought to myself, “no way!” I ducked from his hand, turned around and went back to class. I sat at my desk. I don’t remember but I’m sure the Evil Teacher was astonished.

The principal entered the classroom and literally drug me to his office. The teacher stood by as the bastard held me over his knee and hit me three times with a paddle so hard I know I had to have bruises. In those days such punishment was common and accepted.

Barf

It was during this time that I often woke up with a sick stomach on Mondays. I’d tell my mom and she didn’t believe me. She thought I was getting a case of “Manday-itis,” trying to get out of going. She was wrong. I was getting sick. Eventually after a doctor visit, she understood. The doctor said I was over-eating on the weekend and causing myself to be sick because all my food was not digesting overnight. I don’t know if that’s a proper diagnosis but at least my mom took me seriously. And watched how I ate on Sunday.

My mother sent me to school sick at my stomach. One morning I threw up. Did the teacher act like she cared? Did she call a janitor? No to both of those. Instead she demanded I clean the mess up myself. She gave me a roll of paper towels. I got on my hands and knees and cleaned up my barf while the teacher took the class to lunch. This even pissed my mom off too, but it did no good.

The TV

This is one of the weirdest events in my childhood, I think. One of the kids who loved to pick on other kids, including me, was in another class than mine. Somehow he got the teacher to take a small tv apart and open the back towards the class. The bully then got the teacher to send for me to tell about how the tv worked.

When they called me from class to go down there I had no clue why. Entering the classroom, I was asked to identify the parts of the tv and explain how it worked. Hell if I knew, but my dad was an electronic engineer. He had a small tv repair shop where he piddled with tv’s in his off time. He was also the primary engineer for KTRE Radio. So I did know a few things, though the actual way a tv worked was over my head. It would have been over the heads of all the kids of that grade.

There I was, in front of a class of students I did not know. The teacher asked me to explain the parts and function of the tv. I walked up to the tv and looked at it. I recognized several components. I pointed them out, said what they were, and made everything else up. The teacher, the bully, and the class seemed impressed. They had not made an ass out of me after all.

The Name

There were other events that year, but I forgot them. One last thing, though, that the Evil Teacher did. She inadvertently gave me a nickname. If you remember, elsewhere I explained that my legal first name is Hubert. It was an easy name to make fun of. At least I think it was a mispronunciation or something but either way, one day she was working on the black board. She turned to the class, and at me to answer a question. When she did, she called me something else. Instead of my name, she called me by a name I have come to despise with such fervor that I will not write it here. It started with a B. From that day on that name haunted me. It still does.

My beloved brother would call me that name on occasion just joking. I hated that but knew he was joking. Students in school, however, were not so kind. I was called by that name often. It made me angry. But I was a timid boy and lived with it. Looking back I wish I had slammed a few of them in the face with my fist. It might have made a difference in the rest of my life. I didn’t so for the rest of my time in grade school, I was cursed.

Some times you never forget. That year and that teacher is one of those times..