Thursday, March 22, 2012

only curse words come

I got a call today from someone whose name brought you to mind. I nearly vomited. Remembering. Sitting in that office, wanting a partner in taking care of my golden boy. Never having found one at home, I thought the professionals might be on my team. But the professionals who would work with a toad like you were covered in warts themselves. Having only ever had good teachers, I didn't even understand what was going on.

With that call I was pulled into an instant back more than a decade ... closing in on 2. The Oldest  my shining golden boy was in your care. Yet when I expressed concern you patronized. When I was incensed at your condescension, you flat out lied. When I proved you wrong, you tried to tell me I didn't understand simple math.

I called the school board. Supposedly there was nothing they could do. More likely, there was nothing they would do when a very young parent complains about a principal who had served so long. Circling the wagons.

The Oldest, my shining golden boy was in your care. You were responsible for his education, his safety, his development. And you sat with your fat gut leaking over your polyester slacks, you licked your lips watching my chest rise and fall as I tried to control my temper. Your snake eyes gleamed behind your bifocals.

You lied when you said the class he was in was better for him. Twenty-one six-year-old boys and four girls in the most colourless holding pen I've seen. One worn out, grey teacher. Better for him how?

If only I'd known, how much deeper things went. If only I'd known that what would start as neglect the first year would turn into things much more sinister. Much more soul breaking.

Other children saw him choked by the choir teacher. Told their mothers. The mothers told me. I called you. One of them called you. You lied. You said the kids made it up together. The teacher lied. The school board sat on their flatulent asses.

The Oldest said he probably deserved it. I hate you most for that.  And because he hasn't sung in front of anyone since. And for the other thing ... the one that he only admits when he's nearly passed out drunk. The one I didn't know until he climbed back down from the rafter last year.

Your stacks of lies. Your sneering superiority. The trail of slime with which you coated that school made working together impossible. Made learning impossible. Made The Oldest's safety impossible.

The worst mistake I ever made was leaving The Oldest in that school. Some part of me knew that it wasn't okay. That his light was fading. That some insidious evil slipped out under the door of your inner office and infected every room.

There's a special circle of hell waiting for you and your cronies. Only I hope there is also some special hell on earth here for you ... that you live with every day. Some crushing, burning, slow hell that makes you wish to die. I hope that school, that den of evil burns to the ground. I wouldn't even mind if you were in it.

That'd work for me.
_____________________________
Scintilla Prompt Day 6

Write the letter to the bully, to the cheater, to the aggressor that you always wanted to but couldn't quite. Now tell them why they can't affect you anymore.

12 comments:

  1. This is like a punch in the gut. I HAVE to believe that karma will wreak havoc in the lives of people like this. And I have to believe that there is some kind of redemption waiting for your son and for you too.

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    1. Thank you, Stereo. We have love, no matter what else has happened/has yet to happen. We have love. And I have to believe that gives us reason to hope.

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  2. Nothing...NOTHING sickens me more than the abuse of a child. Some day, I'll be able to talk about my own experiences; but, today, I'll just say this...I hope he gets his, and I hope that you are there to see it.

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    1. What really disturbs me is - well, the whole thing, but especially how many people can relate, have a similar story, etc, and how unaware I was at the time. Hugs to you for whatever happened.

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  3. I have no faith in Karma, he needs his fat little fingers broken joint by joint, one after the other.

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    1. That would be great, Jason. Truly.

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  4. Wow. This is powerfully written, and truly a punch in the gut, yes.

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  5. My daughter is a teacher and she tells me stories of these two teachers that are so condescending to the students who can't pick up a lesson quickly and call them stupid to their faces and in front of classmates. The principal is aware yet no disciplinary action has been taken against these women who should clearly be fired. If these instances were to happen in an affluent district, those teachers and your son's principal would've been gone a long time ago. So sorry to hear of what he went through.

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    1. Hi Rebecca, perhaps that's true. However, my son's school was in a very affluent neighbourhood - the best in our city. The apathy/denial wasn't class based but something deeper. Thank you for reading.

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  6. I am sickened by the recipient of this letter, and hope he - and his cronies - get what they deserve.
    But mostly, I hope your son heals. And sings again, in more ways than one.
    Came from the Write on Edge linkup.

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    1. Thank you, Kim. Sometimes he laughs, or hums, and then it's like his soul remembers singing. I live for that someday when he truly sings again. :) I'm thankful for my Write on Edge companions.

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