Memories of Emily: Attack of the Az Part 1

Miss Redge & The Blame Game

Miss Redge 

Lifting legs to the whirling rope between toe taps patterned in beats forming simultaneities that framed her in elongated moments slowed to imperceptible movement leaving each instance an eternity unto itself, unmovable in the endless time continually submerging and emerging from the void of the forgotten. 

Hearing my second-grade teacher, Miss Redge, tap a folder to straighten and secure its contents, I became aware of her discussing me. “Vince is very undisciplined. He spends most of his time daydreaming and displays a lot of antisocial behavior.” 

My stepfather fidgeted in annoyance. “Does Bo have the capacity for academics? Is he retarded? Does Bo need to be in one of those special ed classes?” 

“No, I think Vince is just lazy.” 

My mother folded her arms. “I just don’t know what else we can possibly do to help Bo. He has everything a child needs.” 

Listening to my parents and Miss Redge’s discussion edged me forward on my chair, interrupting the meeting. The eloquence of language escaped me, causing a failure to explain the dislike kids held for me and the limiting effect of torment on learning. “Nobody likes me. I don’t like it here.” 

My Mother swatted my leg. “Stop being sensitive, Bo. Attention seeking makes you look ridiculous, Bo.” 

My stepfather shook his head. “So, it’s everybody else’s fault you don’t pay attention in class, right, Bo?” 

During the car ride home, my parents devised the cure for my lack of focus, and when we arrived home, they led me to my room, where my mother pointed into the open door. “Bo, every day, you will go to your room from five o’clock until eight o’clock.” 

My Stepfather folded his arms. “Now you won’t have any distractions, and you can learn to concentrate.” 

They stared with confidence as I asked, “What do I do?” 

My mother rolled her eyes impatiently. “Well, Bo, you can do anything you want, but we suggest doing your homework.” 

Every day at five o’clock, I sat in my room for three hours. Homework took little time as academic effort diverted to reading the comic books stacked by the desk, which soon exhausted, leading to books. A Hardy Boys collection decorated the shelf, so I read them. The series had many books, and they took time, but when finished, I moved on to The Great Brain books found in the basement where my parents stored all their books. 

My parents earned master’s degrees from the same highly respected university they often mentioned in conversations concerning literature or genres of books they read. My mother compulsively read and wielded knowledge of books with the precision of a fencer’s rapier. Envy of her ability to read fast and recall passages from books combined with the boredom of sitting in my room to inspire more reading. 

My parents’ massive library of books ranged in difficulty and entertainment value and much time passed searching for comprehendible books. Of all the books discovered, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World held the most intrigue. Finding The Antediluvian World caked with dust in an old box had the importance of unearthing King Tutt’s Tomb. How this magnificent book, containing all knowledge concerning the great mystery of Atlantis, went unrecognized seemed inconceivable. Filled with illustrations and stories of Gods who inhabited the city, the book explained everything. Combining this knowledge with movies and television made clear the truth of Atlantis but only after overcoming the book’s challenging, abundant jargon and immense words. 

Early readings of The Antediluvian World spurred obsession with lexigraphy, and luckily, my parents allowed me to move the old, massive, unabridged dictionary from the basement to my room. The dictionary’s magical defining of any word likened this single tome to the Rosetta Stone, and many hours passed researching books, deciphering what adults said, and sometimes, just reading the dictionary. 

Armed with the dictionary, I laid on my bed but often sat on the floor with my back to the door, researching words as the music drifted in from the living room. A fondness for music grew while translating The Antediluvian World, making me stop to listen and motivating me to purchase back my radio. The initial belief of the bedroom sentence being punishment faded in the beautiful voice of Yvonne Elliman singing “If I Can’t Have You” while the verso and recto masters taught seclusion's peacefulness that stole all worries. 

My parents provided the perfect attentiveness-improvement lesson that taught the ability to tune out the mix of people talking, laughing, and playing board games just beyond the door. The worlds offered by books and music ended when the bedroom door opened to the world of Battlestar Galactica and other television shows before bed. My attention never swayed from solitude’s perfect classroom. 

The Blame Game 

Observing life from the playground wall allowed documentation of many facets of human behavior as though on safari with Marlin Perkins from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. In their natural habitat, girls and boys behaved similarly, except girls appeared less prone to hitting each other. Looks could deceive revealed by some girls who took the playground’s center stage, controlling hopscotch and jump ropes, becoming mean when not given what they wanted. Girls didn’t play basketball or kickball, and boys did not jump rope or play hopscotch, but the swings provided a gender-neutral zone where boys and girls met, passed notes, and played. Gender differences in the population held no answers to the ongoing mystery of why the herd forced some children into exile but did reveal many dangers when researching. 

Once I made the mistake of studying the population too close, inciting Earl, the alpha male, to roar and attack. The pack rallied as he leaped about, missing only handfuls of feces for flinging while making sure I knew never to observe so closely again. 

More fascinating than Earl, the subject Isabel appeared separated from the group at times. While she interacted with other girls, she exhibited more introversion than the rest of the pack, sometimes observing from the opposite wall of the playground. She appeared sad, as though she were lonely or not meant to be there. I imagined talking to her and learning what caused her sullen disposition, but that never happened for fear of disturbing the population and habitat. 

Observation of wild animals required great vigilance since taking one’s eyes off the beasts could result in a deadly attack. Once, I became distracted by a new building's construction outside the school, which required a tall crane. Standing on the wall holding the fence provided a better vantage of the powerful, enormous machine, but turned my back to the beasts. Hearing a commotion behind me, I looked too late as Earl clawed me from the wall by the shirt, causing an oddly angled landing that made my left wrist pop unnaturally. A visceral sensation ran through me, and fighting not to throw up, I rolled over to witness Earl jumping up and down, howling and strutting in triumph. The pack laughed as a teacher came over and helped me stand and go to the school nurse. A trip to the emergency room to receive a cast for a broken arm should’ve taught a painful lesson to never turn my back on the wild beasts. 

Staying home for a day and the cost of breaking my arm displeased my parents, earning a two-week punishment forbidding television. My mother added the hospital cost to the gratitude ledger, and despite explanation, my stepfather voiced my culpability for the injury, “That will teach you to be more careful, Bo.” 

Similarly, Miss Redge scolded me on the way to recess the day I returned to school. “You need to be more careful playing in the yard.” 

“Earl pushed me off the wall.” 

Miss Redge rolled her eyes. “Do you really want to play the blame game? Are you really going to make me spend my time and effort filling out paperwork? If you want to play that game, then I need to send you to the principal for breaking the rules for climbing the fence. Do you really want to be suspended?”  

“No.” 

“No, what?” 

“No, Miss Redge.” 

I went to recess and sat on the wall. Earl left me alone that day. He ran around terrorizing other people without a care in the world. 

“You’re an ugly fag!” Earl informed me.  

“I’m not!” 

He pulled my hair, making my scalp sting. “You’re a curly-haired faggot.” 

Earl’s cronies laughed and pointed. “Ugly faggot! Ugly Faggot!”  

The incident bothered me more than on previous days, and my dislike of the word "faggot" motivated Earl and friends to continue calling me an ugly faggot until the end of the week. On Friday, my stepfather picked me up from school, and from the car, he witnessed Earl and the other kids saying something to me. My stepfather pointed to Earl as I closed the car door. “What are they saying?”  

“They keep calling me an ugly fag.” 

Jerking the steering wheel slammed the tire into the curb, to which he threw the transmission into park then swung open the door. “Let’s go.” 

My stepfather walked defiantly to the principal’s office and entered without knocking. “Why the hell are you people allowing my stepson to be called names? I was just outside, and those kids were calling him a faggot. Is this what my money is paying for?” 

His yelling unleashed a firestorm reaction of phone calls resulting in Earl and cronies reporting to the office on Monday morning to receive detention for a week, and unbelievably, they were all forced to apologize to me. My parents sat me down on Monday evening, and my stepfather shook his finger at me. “Don’t ever let anyone call you a fag. Gay people are disgusting misfits. They used to lock them up until recently.” 

My mother nodded. “Gay people are usually drug addicts and criminals. They’re prone to murdering people because of their insanity.” 

“What’s gay?” 

My stepfather scowled in disgust. “Gays are men who have sex with other men. They should all be killed.” 

The conversation ended shortly, and I went to my room to consult the old dictionary, which revealed “gay” meant several things, but further exploration of definitions led to “homosexuality” which defined as a mental disorder and deviant behavior. I closed the dictionary and went to bed but tossed and turned until waking in the early hours feeling wetness. Standing next to the bed and staring at the urine stain on the sheet, my wet pajama bottoms caused shivering in the morning air. Quietly, I changed my pajama bottoms and tried to figure out what to do about the bed.