Shades of reddish pink, to purple
Friday, Day #10. Jenni’s request (Blog everyday in May, challenge), asks that we write about our
most embarrassing moments(s).
I had to consult with a dictionary, Google and Yahoo search engines before I could clarify what was embarrassing, versus what is humiliating. There’s a fine line floating around in here, for me, that is.
(“Stage props, please. Thank-you!”)
Elementary school, First Grade
Reading table (further description is necessary, allow me to expound. The table is one of those picnic style, benches on either side, weathered a bit, but if I recall, correctly, it was painted. Blue? Yellow? No, I think it was blue). Teacher, Miss Peak, who later became known as, Mrs. Horn (married her flame, I guess. Who knows, maybe it was an alias. She schooled quite a few of us government brats (Navy, in my case), wore horn-rimmed glasses, a dark bee-hive (or was it a bun?) and never took, “NO!” for an answer.
Reading groups were called, according to skill(sets) and we would clamor up to sit at our assigned seat, readers in hand, as Miss/Mrs., would take turns calling upon us to individually read out-loud. Thinking about it now, this was not a picnic table, it was a gathering spot that I will henceforth record as,
Table of Shame.
Evidently some children studied from Evelyn Woods in their spare time, or perhaps they actually did their daily home reading assignments. Can you see where I am going with this? Or is it necessary that I paint the full picture?
I thought so!
You weren’t close behind me, where you? Didn’t study much? Left your reader in your desk, just as I did when that bell announced,” FREEDOM!” on afternoons at 3:00. Okay, I don’t claim to know your excuse, but I’m going to honestly tell you mine. There were five kids at home, a father who was absent, much of the time, and a world that beckoned, “Come play!” Besides, anyone can learn to read, if they want to, it’s just that now I really don’t want to, and it was quite evident that upon this specific day, at school, I couldn’t be bothered.
My attention span is measured in close proximity to that of your average house fly. I’m here one moment, gone the next.
My name was called for me to read. I wasn’t even on the correct page (funny how you can recall specifics), actually, I believe it was turned sideways or upside down. Either way, it took both readers on either side of me to set my sails, manage my coördinates. I was squirming. I’d been caught, and now I’m going to have to read to everyone while I’m shaking and on the verge of tears. “Is there no Mercy?”
Miss/Mrs., voice sternly rose, she vomited forth words, but I sure as heck can’t repeat them here! (I’m sure she wasn’t cussing, although I can’t put my hand on the Bible and confess to that at 100%) Her words clamoured about me so, and before I could begin the attempt at reading from my reader, I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. In the commotion and contortion of the moment, I found a way to raise my hand, and beg, “May I go to the bathroom?”
SILENCE. Drop a pin… Listen… Carefully… Get ready for it…
“No, you may not!”
Now I had to pee and read! In First Grade this required skills that did not match my skill set.
Okay, the book is upright and my comrades have directed me to my assignment. But I still have to pee. I squirmed and sputtered, tried sitting still, when asked (repeatedly), and went forward with teacher’s request.
The bell rang for lunch!
The blood finally drained from my face, as did the urine from where ever it comes from when you are that age.
I thought I was free, but teacher told me to sit, she needed to discuss something with me. (I’m pretty sure she was unaware of how slippery this slope was becoming, but soon she would discover.)
Forget squirming. I’m now drenched on my bottom parts and the walls of the room are closing in on me. My friends are filing up at the doorway, eagerly awaiting to fill their hungry tummies, but first, M3, needs a few added minutes of incarceration.
She scolded me about something. And through my tears, I’m sure I gave her my full attention. I had no choice. The hunkering jury was salivating all over themselves by this time, and the judge, well, she was dishing out the warrant and the arrest. If you know what I mean.
Class was dismissed for lunch and recess. I stayed behind and helped teacher wipe up the floor with towels from the bathroom. Excused, I eventually made my way to the end of the cafeteria line. Pants wet, but drying. Shame washed over my body. There was a scarlet letter atop my forehead. Not only had I managed to pee upon myself, I had also managed to rip a large hole in the seat of my britches. (All that squirming!)
I don’t know how I made it through the lunch, surely I sat there until everyone else was out on the playground. Knowing me, the lunch ladies most likely asked me to leave. It was THAT kind of day. Somehow I found myself outside, and eyes sweeping feverishly across the playground, I spied my best friend, Nancy. At this point I knew no shame. I ran quickly, tears flowing as I pulled her away from her play.
“Look, Nancy! I have a big hole in my pants.” I cried. “You’re got to help me, PLEASE?”
And this is where I bribe Nancy to be my bodyguard.
I begged her to walk right behind me for the rest of the day, right behind me. Directly, behind me.
“Nancy, don’t let anyone see this hole in my pants!”