UNCONDITIONED CHAPTER 14

Screwy

In fourth grade I was assigned to the classroom of Mother Staten—rhymes with Satan. If Mother MacNamara was the frying pan, Mother Staten was most certainly the fire. She was short and trim with beady eyes, pale lashes, and wire-rimmed glasses. Serious and intense, she scowled while scanning the classroom for deviant behavior. I knew right away I needed to stock up on tissues because this was going to be one hell of a year.

Mother Staten must’ve had the same training as Mother MacNamara. The first subject of the day was religion, with the tortures of Hell as a recurring theme. Mother Staten ran her finger across her throat while making a slitting, gurgling sound when describing punishment for the many misdeeds that could land us there. While Mother MacNamara moved like a vulture—graceful until the gorging—Mother Staten was more like a hyena—nervous, unpredictable, and jumpy.

In previous classrooms if I raised my hand and asked politely, I was allowed to go to the bathroom, which was called “the sanitary,” another curveball thrown by adults to confuse children. Mother Staten granted permission only to a select few, of which I wasn’t included. I focused all my attention on not peeing my underpants until we were given a break before lunch, which was brought from home and eaten in silence at our desks.

My desk was in the middle of a room of close to fifty students and I strained to read the blackboard, squinting my eyes until they burned. It took me weeks to summon up the courage to ask Mother Staten if I could move to the front, unofficial prime real estate for her favorites. Mother Staten smiled at me warmly and purred, “I’ll move your desk.” For a moment I believed she’d help me and grinned back at her expectantly. She walked me to the last seat in the fourth row, pointed at it, and flashed a fake smile. I sat down shaken by her mean-spirited deception. From that far back, I couldn’t see the board at all.

When I told my mother I couldn’t see the board and that that Mother Staten moved my desk further away, she said, “The nuns are married to Jesus. She must have a reason.” I was beginning to think the nuns would have to murder someone for me to get my mother’s attention. She was tired, unappreciated, and full of rage, and on top of that had a basket case of a kid yapping about nuns every day and vomiting every Sunday. I doubt any of my tales from school registered in her brain.

Until I said a bad swear word.