don't knock it till you try it: dwelling in the past

Back in junior high I was into all things theater-related. I went to plays by myself and took part in all the performance-related stuff at my south Minneapolis Catholic school. Theatrical opportunities mostly consisted of yearly revues featuring students lip syncing to "These Boots are Made for Walking," dancing aerobically to "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen and playing "Props" from "Whose Line is it Anyway."

In retrospect this was all pretty small potatoes, but at time these glorified variety shows were promoted to all and sundry as a VERY BIG DEAL. And the biggest proponent of the serious importance of these shows was "Ms. Stumpings," the resident theater/music teacher at my school and the director of these yearly displays showcasing over-emoting tweens and a soundtrack from her no doubt free-wheeling youth (Pink Floyd, James Brown, the Beatles, etc.).

Ms. Stumpings was a product of the sixties. She wore dangly earrings, clothing with leather fringe and owned a rotating selection of ponchos. She set Shel Silverstein poems to music and showed us Duck Soup. She was the only hint of something "anti-establishment" in our stodgy old Catholic school, and of course we all thought she was totally cool.

Despite the fact that I was a girl (she made little effort to disguise her disdain for women), she took me in as one of her protégés at a fairly young age. She praised me excessively in front of our class and laughed uproariously at my stupid jokes. I imagine this was quite annoying to my classmates, especially considering the fact that I wasn't exactly the most popular girl in the fifth grade. "What does she see in her?" I now imagine my peers asking each other, wondering why Ms. Stumpings didn't wise up and lavish more attention on the Carries.

Everything was great, until I started my eighth grade year and ran into Ms. Stumpings in the hall on the first day of school. I was excited to see her, since I'd spent a ton of time over the summer taking part in an acting program with a local theater company and I figured she'd be psyched.

"It was so great!" I told her. "I got to work with these really cool directors and choreographers. We did You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown!"

Ms. Stumpings' smile froze on her face as I told her about my summer. "Oh, I see," she said. Suddenly distant, she stalked away without another word.

I was confused. I'd assumed that she'd be excited about the fact that I'd "broadened my horizons" and pursued my interests while school was out--but clearly she was pissed about something.

Things went downhill from there. She stopped doling out the praise and started ignoring me in class. I talked it over with my mom, and came to the realization that  she was irritated with me because I'd sought out theater instruction from someone other than her. She probably felt betrayed, and maybe threatened, too. Because I, a 13-year-old girl, had taken part in a summer theater time-killing exercise and in so doing, destroyed our special bond.

She treated me like I'd stabbed her in the back. But she didn't want to talk about it, she just wanted to huff around and shoot daggers at me with her eyes, like I was the girl who drunken made out with her boyfriend at a keg party down by Nine Mile Creek.

Despite my relatively young age, I had a sense that her reaction was definitely childish and maybe inappropriate. I became disenchanted with her. The qualities that once seemed charming--like her spooky, channeling-Stevie-Nicks persona and her dramatic, "theater-person" tantrums-- suddenly seemed like ridiculous affectations.

One afternoon while rehearsing for the yearly variety show, Ms. Stumpings pitched one of her famous fits. Whenever we were lacking energy, or horsing around too much, or simply not GIVING IT OUR ALL the way she wanted us to, she would throw up her arms in the air and pace around wildly while yelping things like, "Oooohhh!" and "Aahhh!" and "You children!!" frequently clutching at her hair for effect. Although these displays were meant to scare us into submission, at this point I was SO DONE. I gave one of my friends the side eye and then rolled my eyes in a noticeable way.

Of course she saw me. But she couldn't just ignore it. "SHANNON!!" she bellowed. "OUT IN THE HALL!!"

I sauntered out into the hall, feeling really fucking cool (I was generally a totally polite, rules-following milquetoast).

"HOW DARE YOU disrespect me like that?" she demanded, doing her best to tower over me.

"God, what's the big deal?" I asked. "I just rolled my eyes. Christ, I didn't think it was such a SIN."

"Oh yeah?" she said. "Well, IT WAS."

I still found her utterly ridiculous after that, but there was admittedly a part of me that felt crappy about the fact that my once-mentor seemed hell-bent on cutting me down to size. Wasn't that supposed to be the role of my peers, not my teachers?

I went on with things and decided to run for student council president. My opponent was "Jake Seever," who I still maintain was weirdly self-satisfied for an eighth grade boy. He was widely understood to be "a really great guy." I loathed him. And I was convinced of the superiority of my platform, intellect and physical attractiveness. Of course he won.

I wasn't actually very surprised ("he won because he's a BOY!" was my proto-feminist conviction) or even that disappointed, except for the fact that that instead of letting us losers slink off into the parking lot for a cigarette and a swipe at our thighs with a razor, we were all appointed to chair a committee--in my case, I was now in charge of the "apostolic" committee, the committee in charge of all things religious/God-oriented. And for this indignity, I was livid. (I was already agnostic, even if I didn't know about that word just yet.) It seemed like a perfect example of God personally telling me to fuck off.

After learning about my defeat, I trudged alone down the hall towards my homeroom, feeling put-upon and singular. At this point, as if by magic, Ms. Stumpings appeared in front of me.

"Shannon," she said, giving me a serious look of great pity. "Shannon, please come sit down with me in my room."

What the fuck? Clearly, I was not in her good graces anymore. I'd betrayed her (Charlie Brown) and disrespected her (rolled eyes)--was there any way to get past that? I assumed not, but here she was, clearly trying to project an aura of empathy.

I went with her; I assumed she was re-assuming her teacher role and that she planned to console me about my loss.

We went into her classroom and sat down at her desk, across from each other.

"Oh Shannon," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Was this my cue to spill my guts? To start crying and wailing about how disappointed I was? I wasn't accustomed to "talking about my feelings," (to the extent that I need to put that in quotes) and so I just kind of sat there, feeling like shit, but hopeful, like maybe she was going to act like my supportive teacher right now. In fact, that's what I expected--there must be something hard-wired in my being that, despite all evidence to the contrary, still wants to think that, when things are bad, that other people will try to be merciful.

"I know you're upset," she said. "And that's why I feel that I need to tell you why I voted the way I did." She looked at me in this very meaningful way. She didn't actually say, "I voted for Jake," but that's what she meant. She looked right at me. It was a shitty sort of look--the look of a 40-something teacher telling a 13-year-old student something she didn't need to hear.

I was really surprised. "This is fucked up," I thought, although I don't know if "fucked up" was necessarily part of my usual vocabulary back then.

I was so surprised that I couldn't respond. This seemed to encourage her to elaborate.

"It's just that I really think Jake needed this," she said. "He's been on the decline, and he needed something to bolster him up. You're strong...you'll be fine. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that."

I don't remember if ever said anything in response to all this, and I don't remember leaving her classroom. I don't think I told anyone what happened, because, of course, it was mortifying.

And now that I'm here, like, almost 40 years old, with plenty of other things to worry about, I think it seems self-indulgent and ridiculous to even talk about this dumb incident. It's not like it's stopped me in my tracks or anything. However, it still strikes me as particularly troubling--more troubling than the fourth grade asshole who tormented me for being a "fat bitch" who was doomed to grow up to be a "hooker," or the boyfriend who claimed he attempted to "rape" me (I did not notice the attempt), or the jackass who accused me of being a "modernist" when I yelled at him for making out with my roommate while we were "dating."

The nice thing about writing to a non-paying audience of three is that I don't feel like I have to "wrap it up." And this is something I definitely can't wrap up. Am I proud of the fact that I'm still thinking about something that happened when was 13? Yes!I mean, no. It's embarrassing. But are other people still hung up on such things? I don't know--probably not! It's probably just me. Even so, that teacher can suck it. I don't care how many glowing profiles I read about her in the neighborhood newspaper.