Worst Teacher Ever

By Jessica Lake

I no longer read this account as a final explanation. I read it as evidence of how relentlessly I once turned interpretation into indictment. It shows the cost of making myself the villain in order to make sense of harm.

I see that my problem is not remembering. It’s the interpretation of what I recall. It’s a refusal on my part. Writing brings it out.

By applying what I learned in therapy, I recall the exact person and moment that grammar school fucked me up. It was Mr. Fern in 5th grade during detention at Honey Hill Elementary School.

I do remember that teacher slapping me hard once. Was it then? Was it more than once?

Mr. Fern and I met, just us two. It was an odd tiny space, and he was practically on top of me. He loomed over me making me feel vulnerable, violated, and trapped. He reeked of cigarettes, coffee, the stink of a grown man. Still, I felt cocky and up for the challenge. I swear behind him was a one-way mirror.

That’s when it came back to me that in grammar school, I found certain men repellent. Even today, when I smell a man’s body odor (musk) it makes me gag and want to puke. Why?

Here’s what I remember of our conversation. He started by asking me to talk about anything. When he saw I could do that all day, he asked me about schoolwork. I quickly ran out of stuff to say. That made me afraid.

Then he did the talking. I don’t remember what he said. My guess is he berated me for an hour or two. Picking and poking, not giving me time to think. Trying to trip me up. But for what?

Then he said something that really hurt. And I cried. The shame that I felt for crying in front of him consumed me. I could feel this hot rush of blood to every inch of my skin. This feeling is like crack to me. I felt this the first time I put on my sister’s stockings. I was in the shower, so I saw what it did to my body. This is the same feeling I seek when masturbating or having sex. I am sexually aroused this image shame. I have seen my partners experience but only a handful of time. Maybe this feeling has nothing to do with shame. It’s just that I’ve labeled shame.

In that instance, I had completely surrendered. I didn’t think to attack or defend myself. I wasn’t angry at anyone. Every negative emotion I felt I turned inward.

When I could think again, I swore two promises. As clear as day, I said I will never cry again. The next time I cried I was sixty. And Michael was lying dead on a hospital table. And I promised I would never love anything or anybody that I couldn’t let go in a moment’s notice. That way no one could ever take it away from me or use it to control me.