Ode to Joy

The first day I met Mrs. O Shea, I thought the sun rose and set in her classroom. She played Beethoven's Ode to Joy, on an old record player, for our grade three class, and it delighted me. It was a variation on the classical piece; now turned into a folk hymn, with lyrics, gentle guitar arpeggios, and vocal harmonies. I had never heard anything so lovely. She was speaking my language. The language of Music, with a capital M. I thought I was in heaven, and I loved her for it.

If only the rest of the school year could have continued in this vein, I would have been the happiest of children. Instead, by the end of the year, I hated her with a passion.

Mrs. O Shea thought that all the kids had left the classroom and gone outside for recess. She didn’t know that I was standing out in the hall, surreptitiously peeking into the classroom from around the door frame. I saw her furtively digging through

each brown bag lunch, on the student’s shelf, while unsuspecting kids were playing happily outside. She looked in my direction. I ducked out of view. Pressing backwards into the cold, plaster wall. I tried desperately to blend into the colorful coats and sweaters that hung, casually abandoned by their owners, on this warm, fall day.

Her footsteps seemed to change direction; my heart skipped a beat in my suddenly constricted chest. Was she walking towards me? as her footsteps approached me, growing louder, I cringed away from her cruel, all-seeing eyes. She stopped and stood still, listening, waiting.... and waiting. I dared not move. A coat slipped off its hook and slid noiselessly to the floor. My heart thundered in my ears. Finally, the footsteps

moved away, receding.

When at last I chanced to look back into the classroom, I could see her walking towards her big, wooden desk, that hulked like a shadow, in the back corner of the room, she was chomping down on a bright red apple. That was definitely not hers. I gasped. She turned in my direction, and I ran away down the hall. Fortunately for me, the bell rang and the corridor filled up with kids, coming back inside. I was relieved to be obscured among them. Just another body in the hall. Invisible. We lined up together, at the door to the classroom. I took my place, as though I had not just been hiding out in the corridor, spying on Mrs. O Shea. I stood there nonchalantly and tried to look "normal", avoiding eye contact with "the snake".

Since coming into her class that year, I had heard lots of rumors and whispers from other kids about her. Now I had seen it for myself. Mrs. O Shea, the grade three teacher at St. Bartholomew's Catholic school, was stealing food from out of the children's lunches. I was shocked. I was dismayed. However, I was not surprised. After the first joyful moment of the year, in which I had fallen in love with music, I had discovered that she was the meanest teacher I had ever encountered. She would often hit student’s hands with the ruler she carried, as she walked up and down the isles. She was like a giant spider, waiting in its web for unsuspecting prey to land on a sticky thread. Sometimes she would stop and pinch a child’s ear, or dig her long fake nails into their scalp.

A few weeks later, I had taken my lunch bag out to the playground to eat, only to discover my sandwich had no meat on it. Who does that? I had two slices of bread with mustard and no meat. How could I eat a mustard sandwich? Yuk! It must have been her, I thought incredulously. My teacher had vandalized my sandwich; I was

certain of it. Great big, salty tears ran down my checks. I was so hungry, and the only other thing I had left was a juice box. I did the only thing I could think of. I went to ask my older sister for help.

My Sister Angele’s grade went to lunch at a different time than mine did, so I had to knock on her classroom door, interrupting the lesson, and talk to her teacher, in order to see her. I had never felt comfortable talking to adults, and today, especially

so, after what had happened. We went out into the hall so as not to disturb the other students. When I told my sister what had happened to me, she told me not to cry, and shared her small lunch with me. She gave me half of her ham sandwich, and a cookie. I was so grateful. I had insisted that my teacher had stolen my slice of meat and eaten it. I don't know if Angele believed me or not, but it was ok if she did not. It sounded crazy even to my ears. Who would believe me? After that I never trusted Mrs. O Shea again, and with good reason. In my opinion she was truly evil incarnate. A snake in the grass. A wicked spider, spinning her webs.

That particular school year was a difficult one for me. Following a series of unfortunate events, (not to be confused with the novels of the same name). My parents divorced, my mother went to work full time to support our family, and my grandmother, who used to babysit me and my sister, died of cancer. With no one to take her place, I became something of a latch key kid. I was also being picked on at school by other kids. I had a few friends, but we were not close. I was not one to talk about my feelings, fears, or emotions to anyone. I often felt like I lived in a world of fog. I became deeply isolated; a pattern that would, sadly, continue for most of my adult life.

Near the end of the grade three school year, our class had a big math test. Afterwards, we marked the tests and handed them in. The next day after class Mrs. O Shea asked me to stay late. She came up to my desk, after all the other children had left, and

asked me what I had done with my math test. Confused, I said, I thought I had handed it in.

"Well, I don't have it" she said.

Her dark eyes sharp and watchful, like a Cobra, waiting to strike. She was a tall, thin woman, with short brown hair and angular features, that at the moment were pinched into a deep scowl. She towered over me, making me feel dwarfed and uncomfortable.

I didn’t know why she didn’t have my test, and I didn't know what had happened to it, I really could not remember. I thought it was possible that perhaps I could have put it in my desk by mistake. Nervously I started to stammer.

"I... I think m...

m... maybe I... p... put it in m... m my desk?"

"Well, look for it" She snarled”. Rapping on my desk with her knuckle, making a loud noise that made me jump.

My desk was a mess. Quickly I kneeled down on the hard floor, to look inside the small, dark space. I searched through the untidy tangle of papers and books, moving the same pieces around and around, hoping each time for different results; with no luck. She stood over me closely as I searched, I could hear her breathing. After a

while I got up, careful to avoid touching her, and sat back in my chair. Unshed

tears burning in my eyes, I admitted that I couldn't find it.

"What did you do with it? she said angrily. At her words, my stomach fell, and my limbs grew week and heavy. I shrugged my drooping shoulders.

"I don't know" I said "I can't remember".

She ran her hand through her short, dark hair, mussing it slightly.

"What mark did you get on the test?” she asked me coldly. Suddenly her eyes narrowed suspiciously, as though she had made some important discovery. I couldn't recall for sure, but I said I thought I had gotten 50%. She reached out suddenly with her hand and dug her long fake nails into my scalp, pushing my head down, like I had

seen her do so many times, to other kids. Mostly to the boys. However, today, I was the beneficiary of her cruel, old-school style.

I sat there terrified, too afraid to move, even though she was hurting me. I was so scared I couldn’t think straight, my mind was a blank, as though my grey matter were shrinking. My mouth had gone dry. I licked my parched lips to try to moisten them, to no avail, my tongue was like a withered husk, my lips were glued to my teeth.

"And did you think you had gotten a good grade?” she said cryptically.

"I guess not" I said. I knew that fifty percent was a passing mark, but now I was not so

sure. She had me second guessing myself.

 “No” I said again, not really sure what she wanted from me, but thinking I must have done poorly, and that was why she was so mad at me? My self esteem was not high at that time.

“Did you throw it away? " She said next, her voice low and mean.

I was going to say no, but then I realized she had given me an opportunity, an out if you will, or so I thought. I felt like I had been there for hours. The school was as silent as a tomb. All I wanted to do was go home. So, I jumped on the idea that she had

given me, and told her what I thought she wanted to hear.

"Yes" I said desperately. "I threw it away", I squeaked, hoping that if she knew

it was "gone" she would let me go home. To my great alarm, this attempt failed miserably.

As the lie fell from my stiff mouth, to my horror, she wrapped her fingers tightly around my throat and started to shake me, like a dog with a small, dead animal. Her thumbs pressed cruelly into my larynx as she choaked me. I could not believe this was happening to me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn't cry out, I just hung there limply in her

grasp. Moments passed that felt like an eternity. I could feel my eyes bulging out of their sockets. She continued to shake me as I struggled to take in a breath. I put my hands on her wiry arms. Her grip tightened. I could feel my face changing color, as it filled up with blood, above the line her hands made around my throat. My head started to feel funny, like my brain was swimming inside my skull. Like I was going to pass out. Her fake nails, like claws, dug in to me, piercing the skin of my throat. I looked up into her face, red and angry, like a pit bull, and I thought to myself, she is going to kill me. Time seemed to stand still. I knew in that moment, that I was going to die. It felt surreal. I felt completely helpless, knowing that no one was coming to help me. I was completely alone with this mad woman. My mom wouldn't even be home from work yet to notice if I didn't come home.

At that moment, while I saw my life flashing before my eyes, a crafty look came over her face, and her evil eyes glittered. She took her hands from my neck as though it was nothing to her. I took in deep, gasping breaths, through my bruised and swollen throat, into parched, hungry lungs.

“Then go find it” she said, with a sly, nasty smile. She pointed with her long, bony, shiv of a finger, with its jagged scarlet tip.

I was caught in a tangled web that I couldn't seem to get out of. I slowly walked out of the room, petrified, my limbs felt heavy and boneless. Ploddingly I led her down

the silent hall, racking my brain for an answer to my problem. I went into the girl’s bathroom, and picked up the trash can, at the far end of the room. My back towards her, I made a show of looking through the detritus inside of it. As I perused the nasty contents, I dreaded what she would to do to me, when I couldn't produce the missing test.

Eventually, I could pretend no longer. I put the garbage can down, and turned around to look at her, my hands empty, as I new all along that they would be.

"Maybe I should take you to see the priest" she hissed. Her snake eyes were like little

slits of venom, against her pale complexion. Her cheeks were two bright spots,

red with anger, like she had just applied fresh rouge. Somehow this suggestion was even more frightening than all that had already passed between us. I couldn’t let that happen. To this day I don't know why this scared me so much. I think perhaps I was worried that the kindly priest, Father Pollo, who had eaten dinner at our house, before my grandmother passed away, would think I was a bad person. Would he believe what this teacher was saying about me? What would the two of them do to me? What would he say to my family? Still, the thought underlying all of these other fears, the one that truly terrified me, was that he would send me to hell. That was by far the worst thing they could do to me. So, what could I do? Desperately I looked around the stark bathroom, soiled at the end of the day. It was littered with crumpled and forlorn, wads of hand napkins and strips of toilet paper, like tawdry decorations. Suddenly I was inspired with a thought, I knew not from where it had come from.

"I flushed it down the toilet" I said breathlessly, inclining my head towards the innocent, white, porcelain bowl. My second lie of the day. She looked at the toilet and I looked at the toilet, and the words hung in the air between us. What else could she do to me? If I had flushed it, then it was gone, and I couldn't get it back from the plumbing, right? I held my breathe as I waited for her response. Oh God, I begged silently, please make her let me go home now, I pleaded with all my heart. I am sorry I had to lie, please don't send me to hell.

Looking back, I wonder, did she finally regain her sanity in that moment? Because she said nothing more about “finding” the missing test, to my everlasting relief. She told me to go home, and warned me, ominously, that I could expect to have to take a retest. That was ok with me, I thought to myself, as long as I could leave. I grabbed

my coat and my back pack, all under her watchful eye. Then I ran down the stairs, out the front door, and then home, which was a few blocks away. I ran as fast as my shaking legs would carry me. I ran as if all the demons of hell were chasing me; and perhaps they were. I couldn't be sure, because of course, I never looked back. Not even once.

As a Catholic, I had received my first communion when I was in grade two. I didn't have a deep understanding of what it meant at that time, but being able to participate as all the adults did, was very meaningful for me. That Sunday after the run in with Mrs. O Shea, I felt guilty about the lies I had told, so I didn’t feel that I could go up for the sacrament. I was worried that I would be damned if I did. I was also worried that my mother would notice that I crossed my arms, and bowed me head, and only took the blessing. We had been taught that we can’t receive Jesus in the Eucharist if we have sinned, and that we must first confess our sins to the priest. Later on in life I realized that this is backwards. It is in receiving the sinless one, that we become clean. Fortunately for me, at that time, our class went to confession once a week. I

waited quietly in the pew on my knees praying. Then when it was my turn, I slipped quietly into the small, dim, confessional box. I could see Father Pollo through the curtain. His eyes were closed, and he leaned his clean-shaven cheek against his hand, as he listened to my confession. I didn't tell him the full story; I didn’t even think about telling on the teacher. I only said that I had told two lies. I felt full of shame, as I divulged my transgressions to him. Father Pollo made the sign of the cross towards me and told me that my sins were forgiven. He gave me a little speech about why lying was wrong. He said I had to do penance though, to show that I was truly sorry for my sins; I had to say one Our Father, and two Hail Mary’s. Still, I felt fear and guilt for a long time afterwards, believing that I was somehow to blame for what had

happened to me.

Food for thought; what would you do? God says to forgive, yet I am still working on that. However, if the Lord could forgive those that tortured, and murdered him, then how can I do any differently?