On quiet days, I sit by the window and watch the world and wonder why my own world is so messed up. What did I do to deserve this? How could I have fallen so far down? I hear that guy dumping bread in the dumpster and I think how lovely it would be to have bread today but it’s cold and raining and I don’t have the energy. Was I such a bad person?
I think of what my life used to be like. I see an insecure little girl studying hard to be “first” in her class, under pressure, always under pressure to be the best. I have beautiful long white, blond ringlets, which my mother painstaking does every morning and I keep getting slapped by Sister Mary Agnes of God Zilla, for putting them in my mouth. I’m a nervous sort and Sister God Zilla is a crack shot with the strap. I got the strap once, putting the only blemish on my otherwise spotless grade school academic career, and I don’t even remember why. I DO remember the god awful sting and pain, three times on both hands. I remember the shame as I saw my classmates watch on in terror. I remember Sister’s eyes; she enjoyed it. I don’t remember if I told my mother. Probably not. She would have said I deserved it. Even though I don’t remember, I don’t think I did. Sister God Zilla didn’t need much of an excuse to use that strap which was neatly placed on the corner of her desk with the handle hanging over the edge; made it easy for her to just grab it on her way to mete out her brand of “discipline.” This makes me think of a boy named Andre. He acted as bad as they come and he was on first name basis with that strap. He was a short, stocky, little guy with a huge attitude and this permanent smirk on his face, the bane of Sister’s existence.
One recess, Andre asked me if I wanted to buy some cars for my little brother. I thought he was crazy and told him to go away. He persisted. I told him I had no money. He said, because he knew me, I could have them for free. I was so thrilled to get something for my little brother, I didn’t pay attention to the fact that most of the boys in my class were with him. He led me to a large piece of plywood, left over from recent renovations and leaning against the wall of the school. He told me the cars were behind the plywood and some of the boys pulled it forward so that I could go behind. I remember wanting to tell him I changed my mind. Before I could say anything, I felt a violent push, and Andre yelling “There’s your cars!” I saw the piles of dog shit just as I landed in them.
Sitting here now, watching the world from my lonely window, I’m stunned at how I can still feel the heat of humiliation from an incident that occurred years ago. I can see myself trying to get away from the boys’ cackling and hysterical laughter. Andre’s laugh was the loudest. How can it still ring so damn loud and so clearly in my head?
Next -> Andre’s Punishment
