The year I was ten was supposed to be THE BEST HALLOWEEN EVER. The neighbor promised he’d take his kids and a bunch of us trick-or-treating on a mini-hayride he’d rigged up for the occasion. It consisted of his John Deere lawn tractor (keep your fingers away from the moving parts, kiddies), which pulled a two-wheeled trailer that had a large flat board attached to it. This is what the twelve or so of us were to sit on.

As usual, I had refused to be Sleeping Beauty or a Ninja Turtle or some other flimsy costume that came in a box. Every year, from the 4th of July onward, I spent my spare time dreaming up the perfect costume. This year, it took me all the way up to my birthday (which is only ten days before Halloween) to figure it out. But I had it: I was going to be… a BAG OF GARBAGE! It was perfect. None of the other kids would do it. None of the other kids would even think of doing it.

I fetched a Hefty Sinch-Sac out of my Mom’s cabinet and went to work. I had a pair of yellow stirrup pants (remember those things?) and a yellow sweater that matched the drawstrings on my trashbag. I painted my face brown and cut holes in the bottom of the bag for my feet, and ones in the side for my arms. I stepped into the bag and cinched it up around my neck. Perfect! I was going to be a hit! My stepfather decided I looked too saggy to be a real garbage bag, and stuffed me full of crumpled newspaper for that “authentic” full-bag look. My Mom handed me my loot bucket, and I was on my way to meet the other kids in our street.

I didn’t grow up in a big city, so houses weren’t on top of each other like they are here and in other cities; they were spread out enough that it actually made sense to be pulled around on the little wagon my neighbor had rigged up.

I came out to find that most of the other kids were already waiting around for things to get started. The other kids stared as I walked up.

Girl who was always a princess: “What are you supposed to be?”

Ninja Turtle #1: “Yeah, you look like a garbage bag!”

Ninja Turtle #2: “You should have been a Ninja Turtle, then we could be all four of them!”

Me: “I’m a garbage bag! I did it all myself!”

*Blank looks*

The other kids quickly lost interest in me as the Princess’ dad started his lawn tractor. Before we could take off, though, a mini van quickly pulled up to our wagon, and all of its doors flew open. Out hopped a girl we went to school with, her little brother and their Mom, who rushed up to our driver.

“Glen, can you please take Kristie and Stevie too?” Her voice dropped here: “They don’t have anyone else to go with.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Denise. Of course they can come.”

“Thanks, Glen. Kristie, you call me from Mr. Johnson’s house when you’re all through, okay?” She glanced at Mr. Johnson to make sure he got the message too.

UGGH, dorky Kristie and her crybaby little brother, who was known to wet his pants several times a day. All of us kids glanced at each other, dreading the thought of spending time with kids who were so uncool. We were all so excited about our mini-hay ride, though, we soon forgot about her.

Mr. Johnson gave us a few quick rules; keep your feet up, wait til he stopped to jump off, and so on.

As we took off, we huddled together in the back, talking and giggling and generally excluding Kristie as much as possible. I remember wondering what her Mom was thinking. You just can’t force things like this.

It went on like this for a while, until we made a turn and went up the next street. As we finished the turn, the trailer went over an enormous bump. We all laughed and screamed, assuming it was part of the road. Suddenly, we heard a chilling scream and Mr. Johnson stopped the tractor with a jolt.

Against Mr. Johnson’s repeated cautions, Kristie had decided to dangle her feet off of the front of the wagon; her foot got caught and she was pulled under the heavy wheels. Not only did her little eight-year-old body have to bear the weight of the trailer, but also the full load of twelve kids.

At first, everything was confused. We got off the wagon, screaming, and some of us started crying. Mr. Johnson assessed the damage grimly. All I remember from those first few minutes was that blood streamed down the side of Kristie’s head and out of her ear; her arm dangled at her side uselessly and at an odd angle. Mr. Johnson picked her up gently and drove back on the tractor while he held her on his lap.

After a couple of minutes of discussion and speculation among us kids, we dispersed and went home. I found out the rest later. Kristie’s arm was broken in several places, and after she came back to school she wore a cast that reminded us all of that night for months to come. Her right ear was completely cauliflowered and had to be operated on a couple of times to coax it back into a shape that resembled an ear.

Other children at school continued to make fun of her after that, since she remained dorky. Those of us who were there that night left her alone; we weren’t nice to her, but we stopped poking at her.

Needless to say, that was the first and last neighborhood Halloween hayride.

I am a note taker for my environmental science class, which has an enrollment of 1,060 people. I am supposed to create web pages of notes that students can refer to when they ditch class. It is a freshman-level class that I have to take to graduate. Today I paid an unpleasant visit to our undergraduate teaching assistant.

Him: “Yeah, have a seat here.”

Me: “Thanks. I was hoping you could dig me out of this little hole I’ve gotten myself into. I just can’t figure out why my notes won’t post.”

“Right. Well, I can’t find the file that links your notes to the main page.”

“Aha. That’s because… I deleted it.”

“And why did you delete it?”

“Well..uh…Ha ha, you know, it’s a loooong story, I was in this other folder, and it seemed to me that…”

“…SO you need to make a new one. Do you know how to do that?”

“Uh…no.”

“Open this, click here, go to ‘new’, switch these thingies around here, save it under ‘index.html’ and you’re all set. And then you link up your notes to then main index. Did you catch that?”

“Umm….yes.”

“Is there anything else you’re unclear about? Because what I showed you right there, that thing I did that took me all of five seconds, is really the hardest part.”

“Well, how did you get the new file to come up?”

*sigh* “Okay, open this menu…”

It could have gone on for hours, if I didn’t have to pee so bad.

ONCE upon a time, I was really, really, ugly. I think I am pretty okay now, and even have occasional foxy days when the hair co-operates.

ANYWHO! A few years ago, I was a true Platonic model, that is to say, what was in my heart and my soul was reflected on my covering. I had my ratty lil punker boy neighbor shave my head up the back until all I had left was four square inches on the very top, which was dyed black and purple. I had the aforementioned bullring in my nose, and the requisite shredded camoflage/black clothing to match. I had a sneer and a bad attitude and the perpetual cigarette hanging off one side of my lip while I spit out of the other side. I could smoke a bong, set a Dumpster on fire, and slap you around all at the same time. I couldn’t stop listening to “Louder Than Bombs” and copulating with my greasy blue-haired boyfriend. We didn’t just live like Sid n Nancy, we WERE Sid n Nancy (less screeching and more passing out though).

One night, in the middle of my Year of Angst, some friends of mine dragged me to the mall to see our other friend, who had an exceedingly glamorous job at a pretzel hut called “Hot Sam’s”.

We shuffled up to the counter and began to loiter in the special, disaffected way that only Midwestern, small town teens can manage.

“Hey, man, what’s happenin.” (quick flash of the Devil sign.)

“What time are you fuckin off?”

Our meet-n-greet was interrupted by our friend’s manager, who came out to see what all of the angsty commotion was. She looked over the four or so of us very critically, obviously deciding if she should call mall security or tell us to shove off herself. She glared at us for a few moments more before zeroing in on me.

“Kenny,” she said to our captive friend behind the counter while staring at me and smirking, “is that… person… a boy or a girl?”

*******************

My friends were twelve kinds of dicks to authority figures and our schoolmates, but we were always good to each other. No one laughed at me, but instead simultaneously turned on her.

“Fuck you, lady!”

“Show her yer tits, Asshole!”

“Yah! Show her your tits!”

“What a cunt, let’s get out of here.”

We left pretty quickly, after that, promising to pick up our friend at the appointed time. We got flak from lots of people in that conservative town, but that was probably the hardest hit yet. And I, being the oldest and meanest, was the unofficial ringleader, so morale was low when we left the mall.

For a moment back there I considered flashing her, maybe to let her know that what she said didn’t bother me. But it did. I had never been mistaken for a boy before; it was a little chink in my hardass armor I worked so hard to keep up all the time. It’s funny how little things like that can make you re-evaluate your life. I realized that my outside was reflecting my inside, and I didn’t like what other people saw.

School starts tomorrow. It is my last quarter of my undergraduate education. I did the preschool thing, kindygardy, and all required 12 grades. I went to community college, and then Arizona State, and now the University of Washington (smaller than ASU but still big). I went to school in Michigan, Illinois, Arizona, and now Seattle. I have been attending school for almost 16 years, and-

I am still afraid of the other kids. Afraid of tripping up the stairs (which I am prone to do), afraid of vomiting on my desk, afraid of pissing the snobs off. I am most afraid of saying what I really think, accented with my “colorful” vocabulary and having people turn and walk away, or making their ears turn red. This is my bad habit.

I remember the kids who barfed at school. Even when I was little and felt that sense of relief that it wasn’t me that time, I always felt sorry for the humiliation they had to go through. I did something at school once that is usually more stigmatizing, but unlike those desk-vomiters, I managed to avoid getting caught.

In the first grade, things get more serious and you aren’t just coloring all day anymore. I think kids need to be eased into this new tedium of rote memorization and mindless obedience gently, with a “firm but loving hand” as they say.

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Strock, did not subscribe to this theory of primary education. She was a huge proponent of singling children out for embarrassment in order to get them to assimilate, screeching loudly, and terrifying arm-flinging.

She and I had already engaged in several battles prior to The Incident. Whenever one of her charges would misbehave, she would force the offender to walk up and write their name on the chalkboard. Further misbehavior would result in checkmarks next to your name; each checkmark increased the number of “I will not (fill in offence) in class” sentences one had to write by five. By the end of the day I usually had one or two checks by my name, resulting in ten or fifteen sentences.

One day, I got fed up. I would NOT stop talking or disrupting the class. I was sick of the rules. After a couple of warnings, Mrs. Strock ordered me to get up and write my name on the board.

My mind raced; I was supposed to get up and write my name as a reminder that I was a bad kid, and that I now had this punishment over my head for the rest of the day. Suddenly, even though I was 6 and she was the adult it seemed so stupid.

“No,” I said quietly but clearly.

After strongly suggesting that I change my mind, and seeing that I was standing firm, Mrs. Strock asked the class tattletale to do it for me. Stacey gleefully ran to the board and wrote my name on it in large heavy letters. She enjoyed it; I think it was the only time she went to the board all year. Stacey got hers later, though. When the weather warmed up that spring, a wasp with a finely-honed spoiled princess dectector came in and gave it to her good.

But about halfway through the school year something happened which made Mrs. Strock treat me with a little more kindness and understanding. I was glad, even if it was only out of guilt.

Every morning, Mrs. Strock would line all of us lil kids up to go on a bathroom break. One morning I didn’t have to go during break, but had to pee like crazy about ten minutes after we had returned. It was in the middle of work time and I raised my hand.

“Yes?”

“Can I go to the bathroom please?”

Mrs. Strock frowned, assuming I was just trying to escape class for a while.

“We just went. You’ll have to wait til lunchtime, Asshole.”

Uhnnn!!! I wiggled in my seat and couldn’t concentrate on my work. I debated getting up and running out, but was still half-daunted by authority figures then. I asked one more time, privately, at her desk and was refused again.

Minutes dragged by. Finally, I gave up and let go of my bladder. The other students were oblivious, absorbed in their busywork. I peed very, very slowly and carefully. There was no dripping sound; I watched it run down the legs of my chair and form a discrete puddle next to the wall. Despite being trapped in urine-soaked pants that were beginning to get cold, I felt one hundred times better.

What to do next? Like any small child, I decided ignoring the problem was the best solution. Around lunchtime, my teacher called in the janitor to clean up a puddle which had suddenly appeared near my desk. Mrs. Strock looked slightly vexed as she glanced from me to the puddle and back again.

“Huh,” said the janitor. “That’s strange.” He thought for a minute until he looked up at the radiator next to my row of desks.

“Must be a radiator leak. I’ll go get my tools and a mop.”

Mrs. Strock shifted uncomfortably, and then chimed in, “I’ll bet you’re right. It probably is the radiator.”

We were then dismissed for lunch. As Mrs. Strock watched me walk away, she probably noticed the wrinkles at the bottom of my freshly untucked shirt, which blessedly was long enough to cover my ass.

I was dry again by the end of the day, and never even told my Mom, because I was certain I had done something wrong. I was just glad the other kids never found out.