I sit up in bed, my mind starts racing and the anger begins. Why wasn’t someone there for that little girl to help her deal with the trauma and horrible loss? Why couldn’t there have been a decent burial for my friend, instead of seeing his tiny body dragged by the tail with a smear of blood to the side of the road and thrown in the weeds? Why did that little girl have to get on the school bus that day? Why did she have to endure another day of physical and emotional abuse, at the hands of a teacher, at a time like that?
I’ll never forget that bitter schoolmaster hag, Mrs. Townsend. It may have been due to my severely petite size or due to my lack of any basic education; but for some reason, that gray-haired elderly woman hated me. She had made me the focus of her contemptuous rage and had no intention of allowing me to learn anything.
My folks were told that they had a problem child, that I was “slow” and that perhaps, they should place me with the retarded and mentally disabled youngsters - which my parents resisted. Actually, it would have been a windfall for me to be in “special study”.
Nearly everyday in class, something I did or failed to do would infuriate Mrs. Townsend. She would lose control, and my corporal tribulations would commence. Firmly grabbing my shoulders with her pale and age-spotted hands, my collarbones would be compressed and my body lifted into the air, where we would be face-to-face. Looking into her loathing eyes and gritting teeth, the brutal shaking would begin. The crinkled flaps on her arms would be shuddering. At times, the agitation would stop momentarily, long enough to allow her another glare or to express some ranting; but the jerking and jolts would resume until the old matron was exhausted.
I’ll never forget that bitter schoolmaster hag, Mrs. Townsend. It may have been due to my severely petite size or due to my lack of any basic education; but for some reason, that gray-haired elderly woman hated me. She had made me the focus of her contemptuous rage and had no intention of allowing me to learn anything.
My folks were told that they had a problem child, that I was “slow” and that perhaps, they should place me with the retarded and mentally disabled youngsters - which my parents resisted. Actually, it would have been a windfall for me to be in “special study”.
Nearly everyday in class, something I did or failed to do would infuriate Mrs. Townsend. She would lose control, and my corporal tribulations would commence. Firmly grabbing my shoulders with her pale and age-spotted hands, my collarbones would be compressed and my body lifted into the air, where we would be face-to-face. Looking into her loathing eyes and gritting teeth, the brutal shaking would begin. The crinkled flaps on her arms would be shuddering. At times, the agitation would stop momentarily, long enough to allow her another glare or to express some ranting; but the jerking and jolts would resume until the old matron was exhausted.
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