I blew, but in an unexpected way. I became the class clown. The immature lost soul that made fun of self and the rules. The kids would laugh. I would feel better. Laughter lightens the spirit and fights depression. Many a kid becomes the class clown to get the brain chemicals that make us feel better. But I went to far. It has been so long that I forgot why I was pushing the chair between the isles to the front of the room, but just as the chair got stuck between two desks the teacher returned, opening the door just as the kids laughed the hardest.
No one came to my rescue. They all fell into silence as the horror struck across the teachers face. All he said was "follow me." That was the death sentence to me. I knew the mean was to follow. It was a long long walk down the hall, down the stairs, into the girls gym, and finally the office of the gym teacher. She had been my hero, I could do amazing things in her class. She had the only world I could function in. She silently told me to bend over. The paddle came out and I got the swat.
Not so bad, so you would think. But to someone who had never been spanked, to someone who was dependent on the emotions of others, to someone who was totally lost without adult support, to someone who so desperately needed direction in a gentle assuring way, it was the bomb. The little bomb that destroyed the bridge to help, it might as well have been the atomic bomb. Everything changed at once, the hope was gone, how could I get the help I wanted so badly to be able to become a scientist. I could barely read, barely hear, barely remember, and now barely hang in there. I was hanging on to a tiny thread of hope
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