Every beleaguered story mainstay has to have one thing to remain
a relevant and exciting fixture of an adventure series; an adversary.
From as early as I can remember, I was plagued with several foils
in bad standing at any given time. Yes, life counts as an adventure
series.
One particularly dastardly piece of work took the form of Mrs. Ellen
Witkowski, a New England transplant to sunny Florida where she
took up teaching at a prestigious all-boys private school, the Academy
of the Holy Names.
Ellen, an old school theatrical bitch with a permanent scowl and a
sneer that would shatter glass, was not at all afraid to show her
favoritism among the students. She was an elitist sow who
showered praise and affection on the rich students, and alternately
ignored, penalized, or was contemptuous of the less affluent students
(of which I was one.)
Needless to say, when a woman past her prime resorts to screaming
matches with adolescent boys, it's not pretty. Regularly, she would
make snide remarks about boys' intellect, their lack of pristine clothing,
or their lack of worldly knowledge (You know; significant shit like what
a Cartier is, or what Bergdorf's was...life-saving world events stuff.)
She was a text book snob, a braggart, and a bully.
I dreamed nightly of slapping the taste out of her mouth and beating
her senseless (short fight,) and occasionally forayed into just
what my alibi would be when her body was discovered in a shallow
grave at the dairy farm near our house, the cops scratching heads
as they pondered aloud "What we just cain't figury is why some
uppity Yankee would have been way out here'ins this country side
of the county? Y'all have any ideas about that?" Whoopsies.
We had standoffs on an hourly basis; she knew what buttons to push,
and I kept my insubordination just this side of insurrection...mostly.
It was a moot point, though, because this was the 7th grade, and I
had long since mastered both parents' handwriting style so as to
effectively forge any responses to notes home, progress reports,
disciplinary forms, and the like. She only thought I was scared of her.
(And lest you think I had an ally, when I wasn't being terrorized at
home, they were training me to be a punching bag for others. Both
parents instructing me to avoid trouble, never talk back--even if the
other person was wrong--and to allow my ass to get kicked if it
came to it. My parents looked at me as their Golden Ticket, and
they wanted no problems at this oh-so-important school they had
sacrificed to get me in. No matter the quality of life or the long-term
side-effects; be a doormat so we can have a Presidential son!)
If I were to be bullied or teased in her classroom, she would allow
it to go on and on in interminably. When I finally had my fill and
responded, all Hell broke loose.
(I imagine not much has changed from this incident nearly 30 years
ago to the current bullying problem in schools where a double-standard
invariably permeates.) I was hit and stabbed with pencils at one point
and she laughed, but when I placed gum on The Jew's pants (hey,
that's how stupid 12 year-olds refer to one another--sorry!) it was an
act of unforgivable terrorism. Never mind that he routinely pointed
out that he could buy my entire wardrobe with what he spent on the
average nightly dinner.
I had a hatred for that woman that was dangerous. And one day, the
firestorm. A boy was teasing me on the playground, calling me "Fag."
Now, I knew at the time I was, but I was terrified of anyone else
knowing, so my macho defenses kicked in. I chased and grabbed and
ripped shirt and whooped ass. Then Witkowski came to the window
of her classroom and called for us.
When we came, huffing and puffing, she very belligerently told us we
were both sitting out PE and getting classroom punishment as well.
Andy Boyer lied and said I attacked him unprovoked. She gave her
trademark sneer and said to him disgustedly--as markedly foul a look
as ever I have seen--"I heard what you said to him, and if I was him,
I'd have beaten you for saying such a horrible thing, too." That gut kick
of soulful disrespect from an authority figure. Didn't matter I didn't
respect her; I was so vulnerable on a deep emotional level in regards
to my sexuality and my worth as a human being, this sucker-punched
me. My homophobia was 'justified' for many years by such seemingly
insignificant comments that haunted and lingered.
Yup; that was confirmation. Being gay was the 'worst' thing imaginable.
We continued to go round and round, and I wish I could say I worked
things out or progressed past my hatred of her. or even that I under-
stood her. When she was my homeroom teacher the next year, she
gave all of us personalized posters for our graduation from her class
and the school. Mine was the "Serenity Prayer." You know..."accept
the things I cannot change." It only further enraged me as I saw it as
a slap in the face to the inevitability of corrupt people running things
and injustice prevailing. Maybe, too, it was something more she saw
in me.
But who's to say. My view of her was rather entrenched by the more
prominent experiences. I'm not sure I'd be open to more depth in her
if it were true.
Middle school isn't for sissies, and time has not proven any more forgiving
of my chief foil, WitCowSki, aka The Head Bitch In Charge.
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