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.