WG Writing Prompt

The prompt was expand upon:

I'd like to really understand everything that led me...

For Many Reasons, I Hate Math

I'd like to really understand everything that led me to Baldwinville Elementary, a falling apart and underfunded school that, for some reason, had wall-to-wall carpeting. God, that carpeting stunk, and I can still smell that odor if I think about it long enough, though I very much don't want to. 

Baldwinville Elementary, a grey two-story building with buzzing, prison-like lights, sat at the state's saddest intersection. To the right was Winchendon, which the locals referred to as Winchen-tucky; to the front was the main road into the bad part of Athol, and to the left was the street that led to the old Salvadore car lot. Scattered around this podunk crossroads were a minuscule California Paints and Stains, Village Pizza, and a heavily polluted river, where they held the annual rubber duck race each year. 

Mayberry this small town was not, but I had chosen this school in my desperate bid to get the hell out of Sacred Heart. 

I attended Catholic school from Kindergarten through fourth grade, and there was no way I was going back for fifth. 

The reasons for why would fill a tome. I'll skip over the fact that our playground was an empty parking lot and the fact that the large male principal made each of us sit alone with him in his office at least twice a year and focus on some of the easier-to-digest problems. 

The teachers, all frumpy women who wore turtlenecks and smock dresses, constantly scorned us, saying, direct quote, that we were "the worst children this school has ever seen. Back in the day, we could've hit you with rulers." 

Along with threats of beatings, I was sick of attending church on Sunday, just to have to attend it again first thing Monday morning, but most of all, I needed to get away from mephistophelian Mrs. Gleason; I was done being her favorite whipping boy. 

Oh, Mrs. Gleason, I sincerely hope that wretched monster is in hell now. The really bad, itchy, and spider-filled section of hell, next to Hitler and Ronald Reagan. 

Mrs. Gleason looked like a withered, skeletal Buzz from the Home Alone movies, with a similar haircut and the same wormy lips. She was my math teacher and the cruelest thing I'd ever had the displeasure of dealing with. Her beazulbub-ian way of trying to force my dyscalculia-laden brain to understand fractions was to scream. Apparently, she thought the louder she yelled, the more I'd understand. 

Satan's sister found true joy in embarrassing me in front of the whole class, cackling at my mistakes, and getting pissed off when I didn't know how to correct them. She delighted in my low test scores and seemed to feed on my torment. Shockingly, her 'teaching' methods didn't turn me into a math whiz, but they have given me much to discuss in therapy.

As the end of fourth grade and my rope approached, I cornered my parents in the living room and began my plea to leave Catholic school. To my surprise, I hardly had to put up a fight, and they quickly agreed to my demands,

"Okay, you can go to public school," my dad shrugged and turned back to the TV while my mother returned to her Oedipal relationship with my brother, gleefully whispering, "We're going to save so much money!"

That ended up being the entire conversation, no follow-up questions or concerns for my well-being, no tour of my new school. No going away party at my old school. I never received affection, let alone pomp and circumstance, so this was entirely expected. 

What was not expected were the people I missed from Sacred Heart once I settled in at my carpet-mold-riddled school. 

I missed Mr. Burpee, the gym teacher, who wore pants that swished and let all of us openly laugh at his name. Mr. Burpee who talked endlessly about his admiration for Drew Bledsoe and his passion for the Celtics. Mr. Burpee, who carried me to the nurse when I missed kicking a soccer ball and instead fell directly on my back, on cement, and had the wind violently knocked out of me. Yes, I had traded kind Mr. Burpee for Mr. Waters, gym torcheror at Baldwinville Elementary.

Mr. Waters, who pronounced his name "Miztah Wohhtahzz" and exclusively spoke in the third person, had a tiny head and was a complete asshole. No other word would be fit to describe him. He thought he was gods gift to "Teachazzzzz," as he said, in his charmless, Winnie the pooh like voice, and he loved to tell me how unathletic I was. Seeing as how I could barely walk without tripping and frequently fell up the stairs, I was well aware I would never stand atop an Olympic podium. This mean little man in his dirty, 1980s tracksuits was almost angelic, however, when compared with my new math teacher. 

Mr. Phillips must have been schoolmates with wicked Mrs. Gleason, as he had the same teaching methods. The more I misunderstood math, the louder his voice became. When he really screamed, his bad breath spittle would fly all over the place, and his disgustingness didn't stop there. 

I had the misfortune of getting this petulant Oompa Loompa for homeroom. Every day of fifth grade began with choking on the mold spores that flew up from the carpet and staring at Mr. Phillips' waxy pink face.

I swear, his skin was actually pink; his face, his hands, they were all the color of a newborn piglet. And he was tiny, maybe five feet tall, and to make himself look even stranger, I guess, he dyed his hair neon yellow. The kind of yellow that glowed so much it was almost white. The kind of yellow that was so bright it made your eyes want to throw up. 

Wretched Mr. Philips loved to make fun of me more than he loved looking like a reject from Stan Lee's Marvel villain pile. I often felt as if he could smell my anxiety the way a shark could smell blood. He certainly had the same reaction; attack, attack! 

Scared of my shadow and often shaking with apprehension, I frequently misspoke when I was forced to speak. Mr. Phillips cackled whenever I transposed a word and constantly rolled his eyes at me. When he insisted I do math in front of the whole class, on those stupid overhead projectors with the clear plastic paper, he'd do an entire performance from his cluttered desk, mocking my shaking hands, yelling, "Really!?" when I inevitably got the answer wrong, and always ending this fuckery with, "Okay, can someone who understands go up and solve the problem?"

There was more regarding this little creep; I had the misfortune of dealing with him again in sixth grade, but mentally healthy or not, I prefer to keep this carnation-colored bridge troll buried in the memory box I don't open.

So, why the hell did I choose this school? Well, choose isn't quite the right word. I could have stayed at Sacred Heart and continued to suffer religious abuse, or attended Baldwinville Elementary, home of mold and regret-addled adults. Not much of a choice. 

I suppose, then, I'd like to really understand everything that led my parents towards such apathy regarding their only daughter since they certainly had a choice in caring about me.