Mrs. Brown

Mrs. Brown

Every Friday, the stench of fish sticks flooded the hallways by 11:38 AM. The alternative lunch choice was Mac and Cheese made with that imitation 5lb—block of government cheese. My only options were green beans, peaches, milk, and ice cream if I had an extra $0.50… if not for the best teacher in the world. I had irritable bowel syndrome with diarrhea before it had a cute little name; IBS-D. Mrs. Brown understood how severe my affliction was after my first blowup during recess. By this age, you should know how to control your bodily functions. No preteen knows what they are going through when they can’t eat from a child’s favorite menu: milk products when you can’t handle anything like mac-n-cheese, chocolate or white milk, and ice cream.

 Affectionately known as Mrs. B by the whole school, she was a middle age woman who looked like me. She taught fourth grade at Hicksford Elementary School for twenty-five years before I became her pet. Don’t read too much into or out of that word “pet.” To most, the term “teacher’s pet” came with special privileges, but to nine-year-old me, it was a curse. All I could see was a mean old lady with a bad gut like mine that loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and wrote notes to my mother almost daily. I could not read them first or destroy them.

I could not escape the constant wrath of Barbara Lee Arrington Walker because they became best friends for life. Their sole mission was to make my life a living nightmare. Whenever Mrs. Bee sent a note, I felt sick on the way home. I once forgot to give my mom the note on Friday, and that was remedied on Monday morning because Mrs. B was on bus duty. When they realized they could chat face-to-face every day, I knew I was doomed.

I was a skinny but tall, talented wordsmith early on. I could talk my way into or out of trouble. Every report card showed two things: I loved the English language and talked too much at the wrong times. In my defense, I only would speak out loud when someone tried to cheat by looking at my test paper or asking for answers.

There were two bullies in our class, and the teachers would have to try to talk to them about their attitudes. Sending them to the Principal’s office was just a day trip. Nothing happened except the class had peace at lunch, recess, and whenever the teacher needed to leave the classroom for supplies. Frank, the bothersome boy, just wanted to touch boobs; he couldn’t stand it when we grabbed him back, putting his little grapes in a vice grip until someone yelled or cried. Tammy, the other bully, had a sneaky in your, face attitude and would knock you down or anything to make the class laugh at you. For the most part, we never had a problem until I began my cycle; she was like a shark after a wounded dinner. I didn’t feel like dealing with her foolishness on April Fool’s Day, 1975; I remember the date because I had never fought anyone. She picked on everyone before lunch except me. So, Mrs. B chose me to head the line to and from the cafeteria. Telling us to be on our best behavior because she had to get supplies from the art closet after lunch. I’m sure Mrs. B planned this perfect storm because any time she had to be out of the class, the teacher across the hall would listen for trouble. That day I was instructed to close the door once everyone was in the classroom, and the other classes had their doors closed.

True to form, Tammy picked up where she left off before lunch. She approached my desk and knocked my books, homework, and brand-new glasses to the floor. I warned her that I didn’t feel like putting up with her bull, but when I leaned to pick up my belongings, she uttered that phrase that turned a gentle breeze into a force to be reckoned with. “Yup, pick it up___ (before she said another word), I warned her again; Tammy continued, “bitch”. I saw red, stood up, grabbed the wooden desk by the writing surface, and swung as hard as I could, only once. Once was enough to lay her out, needing an ambulance and stitches.

I’m glad she went down with the first swing… She started crying, and so did I. I’m unsure if I had another one in me.

 I didn’t know why, maybe because she was hurt. Or perhaps I feared my mother’s promise to beat me in front of the class if she was summoned to the Principal’s office because of fighting, even though Mrs. B assured me on the way that I wasn’t in trouble all the long slow walk through the hallway to room 333 the office. I’ve often been in that outer room but never had to sit on the detainee bench. Sobbing so much, I didn’t see my mom walk in. The secretary told me to wipe my face and go into the inner office to speak to the Principal. I tried to compose myself, but I couldn’t.

I saw three people the Principal, Mrs. B, and my mother. I started saying I was sorry before anyone else could speak. The Principal said to take a seat. “You’re not in trouble.” Mrs. B chimed in and said I chose you to lead the lines for a reason today, and I knew that you had to stand up for yourself because you seem to be Tammy’s newest inductee into Tammy’s Nuclear Torture Club (TNT club}. We knew it would be hard for you if you didn’t get through it alone. Baby girl, it was the hardest gamble your mom and I have ever taken. Unfortunately, she got injured, but it was sanctioned and overdue. We’re sorry that we had to set you up but remember tomorrow, well, from this moment on, you have to stick to the story that you have been expelled for a few days.

Everyone except my mother had spoken, not until she said I was not in trouble; I would not be punished; my IBS churned in my belly violently. Being so afraid, I immediately had an explosive diarrhea episode. Luckily my mom brought a change of clothes in with her.

On our way out of the office, my mom took advantage of the audience and jerked me by my arm as if she was angry. After we were on the school bus, Mom said, “I’m proud of you; I didn’t know until yesterday just how much Beatrice Brown cared about you. The phone call last night was to inform me that you have been letting Tammy bully you more than I knew about. WHY?”

That was 1974… a different time… Teachers could no longer handle children how they wanted.

 Love and influence over a year can last a lifetime!