Sometimes, just making it to Friday makes you feel like you are sliding into home base barely under the catcher’s mitt.

And yes, that’s a sports reference, and that means some of you won’t get it. Feel free to Google it. I only passed gym class because I aced the written tests that the gym teacher was always so uncomfortable giving out, presumably because it brought back painful memories of life outside the gym, where you’re expected to know stuff.

One junior high gym teacher in particular, Mister Anderson – no, not this guy…

..really didn’t like it. He always looked sullen and uncomfortable when he gave us the written tests. I, of course, was thrilled to see them, because tests were something I did very, very well. And I always felt he sensed that and that added to his discomfort, because usually he was the one with the advantage. I was, and remain, very uncoordinated, and back then I was also whiny and wimpy too.

And like all gym teachers, he seemed to believe that mocking the weak will someone make them stronger. Or maybe getting to mock the smart kids for not being good at entirely useless physical skills is the whole allure of the job. It’s like institutionalized bullying.

I wonder how many gym teachers are former bullies? I’d guess… a LOT.

But I got my revenge on Mister Anderson because it was during junior high that two important things happened : one, I went through my first major growth spurt so I rapidly become way taller than him (he was a little dude, really), and two, I became confident/fatalistic^[1] enough to just ignore him whenever I felt like it.

Nope, not gonna do gymnastics any more.
Nope, not going to do three laps when I can barely survive one.
Nope. not going to participate in soccer drills after you made fun of me. Make fun of me, I quit.

And I got away with this for the usual reasons : I knew I was an academically excellent student and so I didn’t have to worry about my grade in gym, and I knew my parents didn’t give a shit about gym class so if he called them to report my lack of cooperation, they would not back him up.

The same thing happened in elementary school. There, the teacher was Mister Thompson, a tall guy with a droopy mustache who looked like a baseball player to me. One day, when we were using the gym at Holland College because the gym in our school SUCKED SO BAD^[2], I got so fed up with facing mockery in the locker room and above that I decided that when everyone went into the gym to practice volleyball, I was going to stay in the locker room and enjoy some goddamned peace and quiet for once.

This, of course, got me in big trouble. So Mister Thompson ordered me to meet him in the tiny little office attached to the gym, and began to berate me. I was, shall we say, unimpressed.

Then he made the mistake of saying “What would your mother think of how you’re acting?” This was a mistake, because my mother worked at Holland College at the time.

So said “I don’t know, why don’t we ask her? She’s right down the hall!”

He didn’t take me up on that. Just drove me back to school (the buses had left) in stony silence.

I suppose from the point of view of some people, that was a brave thing to do. But I didn’t experience as bravery. It wasn’t bravery, it was being capable of anything when I am pissed off and defiant. That’s a form of courage, I suppose, but it’s hardly noble.

It’s certainly gotten me into trouble a lot more times than it has helped.

Once again, I must say : Jesus, was I a handful. All the moreso because most of the time, I was an obedient student who did not cause trouble. And I got great grades, which is not something you ordinarily associate with the disruptive or difficult kids.

Not until they are teens, anyhow.

But like I have said before, I had a deadly combination of stubbornness, creativity, intelligence, and the deep knowledge that the teachers could not actually force me to do anything. And a defiant streak inches long but miles deep. So I would occasionally do things like refuse to do what the teacher told me to do, or correct a teacher, or argue with them.

Presumably, every single time, it came out of nowhere from the point of view of the teacher. And it would have been one thing if I had also been proud, independent, and aloof. But I wasn’t. I was very needy and clingy, which must have been pretty rich coming from the same kid who could, at any moment, effortlessly destroy your authority with nothing more than a look that says “I know you’re full of shit. ”

Should there have been someone around who could handle me, besides Mrs. Rogers my fifth grade teacher? In the abstract, yes, of course. There should have been someone there for me in the same sense that no child should go hungry and no family should fear for their safety because of civil war.

In both cases, it happens anyway.

Realistically, I can’t get too mad at the system (for that, anyway). It would have taken a very special sort of individual, one of high intelligence, iron willpower, and the patience of a saint to handle me. My own parents couldn’t do it. What chance did some random teacher have?

Every now and then, an extreme outlier comes along, and the system is not set up for that.

And I am one heck of an outlier.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.