In the sixth grade, my grades plummeted. Never before had I brought home Cs, Ds and Fs, and never would I again. Mom was livid with me. I told her it wasn't my fault. This teacher hated me; she was unbelievably unkind. Mom, a grizzled veteran of four children before me, wasn't buying what I was selling. "Get your act together," she cautioned. "Now."
Then mom went to Parent/Teacher Conference night and met Mrs. Meague (Pronounced meh-GUE) for herself. She came home, sat on the edge of my bed, and swallowed hard. "I apologize. She does hate you. Just get out of the sixth grade."
Mrs. Meague couldn't have been older than 25. Framed by fake red hair feathered in the "Farrah" fashion of the day, her face sometimes made me recoil. I say this not to be unkind but to explain, as best I can, the probable source of her contempt for children. Her deep-set, sullen blue eyes were too far apart and perpetually half-closed, and I've seen healthier-looking noses and mouths on prize-fighters. The net effect was a contorted, sometimes stomach-turning ugliness. The ugliness was heightened by the fact that Mrs. Meague never, ever smiled. Not unless a kid fell down a flight of stairs or something.
I'd say that she was old-school or new-school, but the fact is I've never met anyone like her, before or since. Some teachers are product-oriented. Some are process-oriented. Mrs. Meague was punishment-oriented. On the wall was a demerit chart. On the chart we were all listed, and you could see how many demerits your classmates had accrued. Not doing your homework? A demerit. Talking in class? A demerit. Failing a quiz? A demerit. A rumor that you threw a snowball? A demerit. Taking too long to get back from the bathroom? You'd better believe that's a demerit. If you got five demerits, you had to serve detention. Ten meant you were suspended. I did a lot of time.
Mrs. Meague also gave us the good side of the room and the bad side of the room. If in her estimation you had failed or misbehaved, you were made, in front of your peers, to move your desk to the bad side of the room. I only made it to the good side so that she could order me back.
I was as good a kid as I'd always been, but somehow I was always the butt of her jokes. Personal hygiene and my limited wardrobe weren't uncommon themes. At the year-end sixth grade assembly, awards were handed out. We had the Good Sport award, the Class Brain award, the Hardest Worker award. Me? I got the Nobody's Perfect award.
CUT TO: INTERIOR—JOHN'S LIVING ROOM
TODAY
I've been in a pissy mood lately. When I get angry, I run down my Enemies List, see what its members are up to, and generally look for ways of tossing grenades into their lives. Right in the middle of the list is Mrs. Meague. She wasn't hard to find on the web. Neither was her son.
I found a court document in which none of the following was contested: he got in trouble at school for fighting with several other students. When called to the principal's office, he threatened the principal and called him a "faggot," among other things. The secretary called the police, and when the female officer arrived, the kid swore at her and stomped on her feet. He was arrested on multiple charges. For this, Baby Meague was suspended a mere 10 days. I know this because his mother sued the school district to get the suspension overturned.
Allow me to recap. Me: no swearing, no epithets, no fights, no threats, no assaulting an officer of the law. Yet detentions and suspensions abounded.
Congratulations, Mrs. Meague. All these years after I last swallowed my own vomit when looking at your face, you shot to the top of the list.