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Schoolyard Stories

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costacide:
I got into a fight with a Sikh kid when I was in 3rd grade.  I pulled his headpiece off.  I felt so fucking bad about that.

VisualRhetoricProject:
In 4th grade, we had Track and Field and we had to make our own T&F shirts, and we used fabric paint.  We had a little outline to use and stuff, and everyone else had an easy time writing "Masons Mastiffs" on their shirts, and putting their own details on it, then drying it and putting their name on the other side.  I, however, had the misfortune of being left handed.  As I was trying to copy the stencil,My hand dragged across the whole shirt and got globs of paint all over it.  I was trying to be neat, and hoped no one noticed the muddled mess, but the teacher noticed and started freaking out.  She said she would have to do my shirt, made me feel like a dumbass, and asked me to go wash the paint off of my hands and arms.  Unfortunately, I had an allergic reaction to the paint, and my whole arm and my face itched like CRAZY.  I had to get an epi and stay in the nurses office until my mom came to get me.  When she saw me, covered in paint, all red from the allergy, and crying because I was pathetic, she BURST into laughter.  Later, she helped me make my own T&F shirt at home, which was WAY cooler than all those dumbdumbs in the class had.  Woo, childhood trauma.


I have some other ones, but they are WAY too long.  I was always waay too tall for my age, which caused teasing, and my last name is a noun, so I got made fun of a lot for that.  Fun.

Elizzybeth:
When I was in second grade, I got a scratch on my middle finger during recess.  I knelt down and was examining it when a boy came over and asked me what was wrong.  I curled up my other fingers and showed him my middle one, explaining, "Oh, it's nothing, just a litt--"  He ran off, screaming, "Teacher, she gave me the middle finger!"  I don't think he actually took the trouble of finding a teacher to tell, because I don't remember having to defend myself in my ignorance, but I do remember my father refusing to tell me what it meant at home that evening.

A good friend of mine talks about a similar experience: her parents wouldn't explain why the four F's of evolutionary motivation--fleeing, feeding, fighting, and, er, reproducing--weren't the three F's and an R.

öde:
Fucking Fornication?

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