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Monday, January 13, 2014

Rhyme & Punishment - Short Fiction

*** The following was first published in the Redwood Mpire Mensa Bulletin, May 2012 edition. Since that publication is limited to Mensa Members, I'm posting it here for the rest of my friends and fans. It's long for a blog post, but short for a story, and in spite of many similarities to my own life, most definitely fiction. Enjoy!



Before I begin there is one thing I must make perfectly clear; I did not ask to spend seven hours a day wandering from room to room listening to bored teachers give boring lectures about stuff I've already learned.  They should have let me out when I passed all the exit exams at the end of last year.  But noooooo!  I need credits to graduate from high school.  So, here I am in my sophomore year, doing time for credits.  As far as I'm concerned this is just an extension of the juvenile detention system.
Rebellion doesn't come naturally to me.  I can't swear worth beans.  I can't imagine putting drugs, alcohol or cigarette smoke into my body.  And sex is just too risky with all the STDs out there.  But I want to rebel.  I need to rebel.  I never do anything an authority figure tells me not to, and right now my life is beyond pointless.  I can feel my psyche creeping toward the edge of depression.   My days pass by in monk-like silence as I watch the endless dance of idiocy all around me and wonder where I can ever fit in.
On the up side, my intellectual gift allows me to see things and make connections.  Things no one else notices.  Things like ancient unused chalkboards in an open classroom during lunch.  Things like a certain history teacher looking over the heads of intensely focused students to see if anyone just got the humor in his lecture, and winking at my badly concealed amusement.  A moment so rare it sticks in my memory like a single bright spot in this dark pointless season of my education.
This spark of amusement does something to me.  It gives me impetus to strike out on my own and find some purpose to while away the days of my confinement.  The aforementioned classroom provides the scene for my great rebellion.  I have means, motive, and opportunity.  The moment is right for me to strike.  
The hallway is empty, but my heart still pounds in my chest.  I slip into Mr. Van Dyke's math classroom.  Afraid to draw attention to the room by turning the lights on, I work in semi darkness.  The basement classroom has high windows that never see more light than shadows.  Most of the classrooms have white dry erase boards, but Mr. Van Dyke is an old hold-out.  Chalk dust hangs in the air and the dry smell of it causes some nerve or other to twinge inside my nose and remind me of the last time I cleaned erasers...in Kindergarten.  I pick up a broken little white stick of chalk and begin to write.
The words flow from my fingers in a style I feel to be both poignant and pointed.  I feel rage, and I translate it into verse.

There is no place where hate can dwell
Where life can feel like death
As in this dreadful bit of hell
Where getting by requires meth

More lines are taking shape in my head, but I can't risk getting caught.  I leave those four lines emblazoned on the chalkboard and slip back out the door.
Ok, as rebellion goes I know that was pretty tame.  It was only chalk.  The teacher will undoubtedly erase it before his next class even starts.  
Imagine my shock to see it preserved, carefully worked around, when I come into class the next morning.  I hold my peace and wait for others to ask the questions that jump around like popcorn in my head.
"Who wrote that?"
"I don't know.  It was here when I came back from lunch yesterday," Mr. Van Dyke responds.
"What the hell is it supposed to mean?"
Raised eyebrows.
"That high school is hell, dumbass!"
Raised eyebrows point in another direction.
"Why did you leave it there?"
"I kind of like it."
"I thought teachers are supposed to love school."
Raised eyebrows with a lopsided smirk.
Someone snaps a photo with their phone and it makes it around to me on Facebook later.  I muse to myself about the irony of my ability to rebel on a public chalkboard, while being completely incapable of participating in the widely accepted rebellion of sneaking cell phones on campus.  The school handbook bans them on pain of detention, though teachers only enforce the ban during tests.  That is enough to stop me.  There is nothing in the handbook defining punishment for snarky poetry in a public forum.
The high I feel after my little indiscretion lasts through the weekend.  My poetry rated a "What the hell?" Not quite as distinguished a compliment as "WTF?" but way better than a "Cool!"
Monday starts off on the low side again.  My verse has fallen off the radar as news of the death of a little wannabe punk gang banger makes its way through the student body.  He drove his car off a bridge Sunday night after drinking himself stupid at a party.  Two girls fall apart in first period PE and excuse themselves for having lost their boyfriend the night before.  By noon a posse of girls who have all lost their boyfriend the same way, at the same time, because he was the same boy, begin to find each other.  I can't help it.  The lines write themselves.

A dozen damsels, more or less
Have gaping holes within their breasts
Where once his love did satisfy
Now in his death they're mortified
For each one as she deeply grieved
Noticed her sisters all bereaved
So the laddie cheated fate
And a dozen lasses of their date
When he was haply laid to rest
Before the damsels got his best

I am enraptured with my own wit and stay a little longer this time to appreciate my creation.  The words seem to echo around the quiet classroom.  That is my best measure of good work.  Resonance.
Fortunately, the damsels in question are not the brightest sort.  Another still cries quietly in the corner all through our math class the next morning.  She never perceives the insult in front of her.  But the teacher glances back at her with an odd sort of half pitying smile and barely perceptible shaking of his head at regular intervals.
Only one question this time, though numerous students pause to read as they enter the classroom.  "Did you figure out who's writing these yet?"
His mouth says, "No." But I could swear the look he gives me says, yes.
Something about that look puts me on my guard. I wait a week and a day before I compose another, in spite of a wealth of inspirational fodder.  I don't want it to become an obvious Monday thing.  Pointing my newfound weapon in a different direction I take on another regular irritant.

You say that I should know this well
Though what it is you never tell
Thank God that I can read a book
Or it'd be a class that never took
So here I am, looking smart
While Robby rips another fart
You get paid for a job not done
Neither of us finds this fun...

I title this one "Mr. W" so Mr. Van Dyke will not be offended.  As math teachers go he's quite good.  Three teachers have last names starting with "W". I hope this is enough to keep me out of trouble, but on some level I just don't care anymore.  Do prisoners speak respectfully to their captors?  Torture victims to their tormentors?  I have only this one little vent for my pain and frustration.  The pressure built up behind it is no longer restrained.  It bursts forth in silent angry torrents of verse which at best I can only edit for the most offensive of verbiage.
This one merits a "Holy Crap" from my classmates.  A quick and accurate consensus settles the full identity of Mr. W. and Robby.  I hadn't meant to offend the latter. I am put at ease later, when I hear him bragging to a friend about featuring in one of my poems. For some boys the ability to fart on demand, or in melodic sequences, is a matter of great pride.  Robby is one of those boys.
Now it occurs to me that, were someone to search for me, I have just narrowed the list of suspects to thirty-two.  The students in Mr. W's class with Robby.  They could cross reference that with students who have math with Mr. Van Dyke and narrow the number further, though as the poems have all appeared during lunch there is no way to be certain the writer is also a student of this teacher.  If I want to maintain anonymity I should get out of the math classroom and lay some false trails.
My resolve to do so firms up quickly when Mr. Van Dyke spends an extra second examining the test he's returning and comments, "Your handwriting looks familiar." He looks me straight in the eye, one eyebrow raised in a silent challenge, and drops the paper on my desk.
Each poem I write is snarkier, more critical.  I find other classrooms to slip into during lunch, or right after school when teachers leave for meetings. The high I experience after each venture is starting to diminish.  School is otherwise painfully boring and I marvel that no one can hear my internal screams for help.  They seem so loud to me.  So little of my intelligence is occupied with learning that the overwhelming portion is left to rant and rave at the hell school has become.  Composing verse is a welcome break from the morbidity of my other thoughts.  I look for more opportunities. Strike too often.  Take too many risks.  Am more cruel than I ever intended.  
I feel bad about it, really.  But not as bad as I feel keeping silent; keeping the hell to myself. Just because most people are too stupid to know when they're insulted, it doesn't give me a pass. I know that.  I am more careful about what I write on Mr. Van Dyke's chalkboard. He understands things.
Back in his classroom the dim light and the smell of chalk dust, pleasant to my sensory memory, actually make me a little bit happy. I consider less aggressive lines than I have written in some time. As I touch my scrap of chalk to the board, about to write, the movement is arrested by the sudden opening of the door. 
Mr. Van Dyke strides in, glances in my direction, and proceeds to sit at his desk.  I stand unmoving for a few long moments, just staring at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He glances up at me again and nudges me back to work with a nonchalant, "carry on." After which he returns to whatever he's doing on his notebook computer and ignores me.
Apparently, he knows, and I have his blessing.  I turn back to the chalkboard and ponder this for a bit before I am able to take hold of my lines again and wrestle them into place.  There is no need to hurry now.  Though I struggle with words, I do not have to leave this one unfinished.

Dust motes rising in a ray of light
The tangy taste of chalk
Somehow this will be alright
I am silent, but walls can talk

Dry tears fall, crumbly bits of this tool
I use to grind out a message
I refuse to recognize your rule
No sorrow, these are tears of rage

The clink of chalk coming to rest
Caught with the residue of its destruction
But some flecks fly creating zest
Dancing circumlocution

I breathe, and will go on again
I write, clues to where I've been

It feels clunky and awkward to me.  The word "I" is too predominant.  My soul is standing naked for those with eyes to see.  Lost in the moment, I have forgotten that one of those observes me now.  Too late to withdraw.
This verse, this awful bit of self examination, this is what elicits the coveted "WTF" in class the next morning.  I catch a look from Mr. Van Dyke.  A smile of approval and a conspiratorial wink.  How could he like this bit of drudgery?  I find it depressing and uncomfortable.
Lunch finally comes.  Without intent I find myself drifting back toward the math classroom.  It isn't empty today.  Fluorescent light streams out the little eight inch square window in the door.  Muffled adult voices draw me closer.  They're arguing.
"If you know who's writing this you have to tell me.  It's vandalism!"
"Has any been written on surfaces not meant for writing, anywhere destructive?" Mr. Van Dyke asks.
"No," a frustrated growl, "but surely you see whoever's doing this has no right to scrawl their opinions in places that don't belong to them.  They can't go around insulting everybody.  I've been getting complaints from other teachers...and PARENTS!  Mr. Rose is holding off a feature story in the school newspaper on my request, because we don't want to encourage more of it, but the kids are putting this up as heroic freedom of expression. He's going to cave soon."
"I don't think you have any reason to fear.  Kids need to blow off a little steam now and then."
"Steam?!?  And what about this?  This looks like steam to you?  It's looks potentially suicidal to me!" It takes me a moment to remember exactly what I wrote there.  Suicidal?  Really?
Mr. Van Dyke's voice gets lower and sterner all of the sudden.  "Silence is the hallmark of suicidal intent.  If she has any suicidal tendencies, then this outlet for frustration may be the one thing keeping her from it."
I skip off quick after that. I don't want to be caught outside the door when whoever it is gets mad enough to storm out.  Am I suicidal?  I don't think so.  I'm angry, and hurt, but not enough to hurt myself.  The craziness creeps in often, but maybe I'm healthier than I think.  Someone said rebellion is normal for teenagers.  So, maybe I'm being normal...in an abnormal way.
Good grief!  I need a little drivel after that drama.  The typing teacher has left her door unlocked.  The residual smell of her old lady perfume assails me as I enter, but she's a harmless thing, a teacher everyone gets their freshman year. I slip in and leave a little gem on her white board.

Clickety clack
No yackety yack
A trickle of type
Nobody gripe
Texting is faster
When typing you master!

I sign this little ditty, "Yoda," and it makes me smile again.
Peeking out the window before I leave, I see the school Principal exit Mr. Van Dykes classroom. Dagnabbit!  (I told you I'm incapable of real swearing.)
It's too good to last. Mr. Van Dyke won't give me up, but if the Principal is after me, he will eventually find me.  I haven't done anything wrong.  Not technically.  But my conscience pricks me every time I assert that lie, if only to myself.  I'm hiding behind anonymity so I can say things that should never be said.  
However true my statements, they are unkind and unnecessary.  Dang conscience!  It doesn't seem to bother other kids to say mean things to each other or complain loudly about their teachers.  I imagine my conscience as a grasshopper and squish it.  Then sigh regretfully drawing unwanted attention from nearby classmates.  How in the world did I become such an all fired goody two shoes?  For a moment I hate them because I envy their carelessness.  In the next moment I hate me, for envying qualities I despise when I'm in my right mind. Two days have passed and I wonder how much longer I have.
The lunch bell rings and without moving I find myself in an empty classroom, still musing to myself.  Even the teacher ditches quickly today.  One of the clubs has challenged all the teachers, especially the overweight ones, to walk laps at lunch to set a healthy example for the students.  They have to eat fast to fit it in.  
There's no reason for me to hurry.  I'm writing my public poetry daily now and I've become more comfortable moving in and out of places I'm not supposed to be.  This is an excellent opportunity.  I open a green dry erase marker, grimace at the fumes, and begin.

Being bad
Is feeling good
Am I mad
Or misunderstood?

Short and sweet, and I didn't insult anyone.  It makes me feel a tiny bit better about myself.  
The hallways are empty so I walk confidently out of the room and down the hall.   But I have not escaped this time.  The school secretary calls out to me as I pass the office.  "Miss Schuyler, do you have a second?"
"Sure," I answer.  Can she hear the hesitancy in my voice?
"I just have a note that's supposed to be delivered to you at the beginning of next period, but since you're here..."
"Oh, yeah.  Ok.  I'll take it." But my relief at the seeming innocuousness of her motive for calling is short lived.  A glance at the message reveals it carries the horror I have been dreading.  The Principal wants to meet with me this afternoon.  I pray that he hasn't called my parents in for this meeting.  I fully expect to be humiliated, and I would rather not have any unnecessary witnesses.  The injustice burns in me.  Why am I to be censored when others blatantly rebel and never are? But I know I am not so clever in speaking as I am when I write.  And I am invariably cowed by authority figures.  This is likely to be a bloodbath.
Outside the Principal's office I sit, in a diminutive plastic chair, under artificial light.  Like any other offending student that must be put in her place.  I have never been here before.  My emotions are not inured to feelings of humiliation.  I have always felt superior to all the morons who regularly fill these seats.  I don't deserve to be here!  My anger mutes me.  Speaking one word will let loose tears I want no one to see.
There is no sign of my parents.  For that small bit of grace I am grateful.  The face of my accuser is stern as the student before me leaves his office.  A kid I recognize as a habitual truant.  He smirks at me, clearly untroubled by his offenses.  I wish I could share his equanimity.  The Principal's expression doesn't soften as he turns to face me. "Miss Schuyler," he says as he motions me to another humiliating plastic student chair inside the office.
The tiny space is devoid of personality.  It lacks even the generic motivational posters you see all over other parts of the school offices.  A metal desk, ancient rolling office chair, and file cabinets are all the furnishing it affords.  The only object that indicates what kind of office I'm in is a kitschy apple shaped pencil holder with "#1 Teacher" emblazoned on it.  I guess no one appreciates you once you make Principal.  If I weren't so angry about my own plight, I might feel sorry for the occupant of so miserable a room.
"Do you know why you're here?" He asks.
Still unable to speak, I nod. It's a short jerky motion. I really don't want to satisfy his inquiry, but cannot ignore a direct question.
He moves behind the desk and picks up a manila file folder.  His face grows even grimmer as he scans the contents.  He turns and drops it open on the other side of his desk, in front of me.  I recognize the photos.  I've been downloading them off Facebook myself, as a record of my work.  Someone has been documenting it well.  As far as I can remember they're all there.  
A flash of pride breaks through my humiliation and kick starts self-preservation. Injustice sears my mind again.  He can track me down to punish, but has no care for the cell phone wielding students who are posting these pics online.  They're actually breaking a school rule.  And it's not like they're difficult to find.  Nothing is anonymous on the internet.  I wonder if he just tracked me down for the challenge.  Some kind of power trip.
"I would imagine you're wondering how I found you."
Duh, but I refuse to respond.
"I started out just doing the math, and I got pretty close.  But then you got smarter about it and led me on a little goose chase.  In the end the English teachers helped me out.  You've been particularly vicious with them.  We narrowed it down to four possibilities, based on quality of your work.  You've been careful to disguise your handwriting...except in the first three.  Though even that was not conclusive.  Handwriting naturally changes when you go from writing on paper to writing on a wall.  You have a champion in Mr. Van Dyke, but he slipped up when he got angry and revealed your gender.  Only one of our suspects was female." 
He scrutinizes me for a reaction.  I hold myself in check though angry tears burn behind my eyes and threaten to undo me.  My English teacher hates me.  She can't imagine a student producing work at my level and accuses me of plagiarism.  Though she can never produce what work I supposedly copy.
He waits for me to look him in the eyes before continuing.  "You're right.  You haven't broken any rules," he concedes, understanding my unspoken argument.  "But you know as well as I that you have been unkind.  Cruel in some cases.  I could make the case that you have been a bully.  We have a zero tolerance policy for that."
I know I have been cruel.  Had I not been compelled to face self condemnation on that score only this morning.  But I am not a bully.  I have not singled out any one person to attack.  Never have I brought any person into my verses more than once, and never have I insulted the weak. It is a matter of deliberate restraint.  I don't need another reason to hate myself, and I hate bullies as much as anyone.
I am staring back at him, the challenge clear in my eyes. He allows another long pause. Perhaps he's testing my verbal restraint.  I cannot speak now for anything.  I will not give him the satisfaction.  The lump in my throat prevents it in any case.  Just maintaining slow steady breathing has become a challenge.
"You have a little problem," he finally continues.  "And I have a little problem." He moves from where he has been perched on the corner of his desk to sit in his chair.  Sitting so low seems to be a difficulty for him as it's accompanied by a substantial groan.  The chair seems to echo his discomfort, letting out an equally substantial creak.  This in turn is echoed by a long tired sounding sigh.  "If anyone else finds out who you are you're likely to face retribution.  From students of course, but you may not have considered that you still have to study under many of the teachers you have insulted as well.  They're not as magnanimous as we'd all like to believe.  They're people who hate their jobs and get hurt by criticism just like everybody else."
"Furthermore, if I admit to knowing your identity and don't expel you I'll have parents threatening to sue.  You've upset a fair few and they're willing to play the bully card even if it is a stretch.  It'd be a PR nightmare.  If I do expel you, you'll end up at the remedial high school where I cannot even imagine the trouble you'll get yourself into with so much more intelligence than good sense."
This little jab offends me.  I have good sense.  I have already arrived at the same conclusion. It is time to change, and I know it, without his interference.  The tears burn my eyes again.  The upper half of my face feels like it must be on fire.  I won't cry.  My whole being is focused on this resolution.
"If you stop suddenly, it will be obvious that I have found you out.  So, you're going to continue."
Stunned, my mind reels, looking for reason behind this edict.  
"You're going to continue. But first you're going to go through this pile of poetry and make a list of everyone you have insulted.  Then, you're going to find something good about each of them and make that the subject of your verse." The shock on my face stops him for a moment and his demeanor finally softens a bit.  "There is good and bad in each of us.  The bad is always easier to see, but if you look for the good, you'll find it."
I am disgusted.  The Principal leaves me to the task he has assigned, confident of my acquiescence.  The tears continue to prick and burn, and I to deny them.  Part of me is screaming, It's not fair.  But my reason cannot argue with the justice of this punishment.  It is exactly fitting.  It takes all the aggression out of my actions.  He must have expected this to stall me.  The only way I can find to maintain my dignity, and some semblance of rebellion, is to write as witty and capable verse in praise as I have in criticism.  I will not let him make me dull.
Refusing to rescind any of my accusations, I find I can be complimentary about other irrelevant attributes of my tormentors.  I imagine myself to be Paula Abdul on American Idol, telling a singer who sucks that they look great doing it.  My English teacher is the most difficult to compliment.  The best I can manage is still a little backhanded:

You push and prod and make me wise
Though all your methods I despise
When this fateful year is done
We both shall happily move on

I do not specify in what way she's making me wise.  It certainly is not in the area she's supposedly teaching.  Mostly, I have learned a great deal because of her...about my rights of resistance as a student.
Only a few months of the school year remain in which to make restitution.  It takes longer to search out my subjects, and the task occupies time once spent seething.  There is more satisfaction in the task than I expect.  The original challenge had already begun to wane. My punishment becomes the much needed new one.  With each affirmative work I feel a little better about myself.  Like I am buying back my self worth one verse at a time.  
Mr. Van Dykes chalkboard remains sacred.  It is never the location of a restitution poem.  At least once a week I brandish my best verses, the ones I write for myself, and transpose them there.  I don't need so much rebellion as I thought.  This little bit sustains me.  I rage against undefined enemies.  Ones that cannot retaliate...or sue the school.
In the last week of this academic year, having redeemed myself entirely, I slip once more unnoticed into his classroom.  I drink in greedily the atmosphere of this place I have come to consider a refuge.  The scraps of chalk are all tiny now and I use up three of them on my short verses.

Redemption begins in Hell
Else from what are we redeemed
And if the case goes well
All becomes what it has seemed

You've loathed me and you've loved me
And I really have not cared
Most of you will never see
How much that I have dared

I only ask you read this once
And feel with me a spell
I will not think you are a dunce
If you comprehend before the bell

So on your summer travels go
Who I am you needn't know

I did the time, and paid for my rhyme, and felt it a fair exchange.  My work did not cease, but became wiser in the years that followed.  I managed to remain "undiscovered" with help from my few secret advocates, the Principal included.  By the time I graduated others had begun to write in the same way and would carry on in my place.
In the end, punishment, the real sort of punishment, came directly from the teacher I had grown to trust.  He may not have known what he was inflicting and I certainly never saw it coming.  But I suffer from it to this day.  He told me, "You should be a writer."

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