FILTHY GIRL

Skitch as "Filthy Girl"

Photo: "Filthy Girl"

THEN AND NOW:

Filthy Girl


When I started school I was six and looked like I was four. I had poor eating habits, poor health, and came from a family of undersized people. I was so little I couldn't open the heavy front doors to the school, but instead had to wait in the cold until a bigger kid opened the door. I would then act quickly and slip through with them. My oldest sister was in her last year of high school and each morning she would ask some of the bigger kids that got off at my school to help me inside. She worried that I would be stuck outside in the cold even though I told her the door was opened a lot during the morning.

I also got turned around rather easily. I lost myself and found myself a few times each week, and I had no idea how to deal with bullies yet. So, that first year, I found school to be challenging and sometimes even a little frightning, but my first grade teacher was a very nice younger lady named Mrs. Stanley. She seemed to love all her students and so, despite the challenges, I loved school while I was in her class.

When I was a little older and could open the doors on my own, I had two teachers in the same grade and one of them did not like me as much as Mrs. Stanley had. As a matter of fact, it was soon apparent that this teacher hated me! Mrs. Stanley had taught us to finish our work and then turn our sheets of paper over, waiting quietly for the other kids to finish, so the class could move on as a unit. This made sense to me, and I was good at finishing up and waiting. While we waited, we were allowed to color, draw, read (once we learned how to read) or work on other school papers as long as we did so quietly. On the very first day of school with this different teacher, I finished my work quickly and turned my paper over to wait. I didn't color or draw because I wasn't certain the teacher would approve. I simply sat quietly and daydreamed, which I was also quite good at. The teacher was walking the classroom aisles with a paddle in her hand. I'd never seen a paddle in Mrs. Stanley's hand, and I was a little worried about this one. But I told myself that I was a "good kid" and therefore had nothing to fear from the weapon.

When the teacher walked by my desk and noticed my paper was turned over, she whacked the paddle against the desk and ordered me to get to work. The crack of the paddle shocked me so that my voice quavered when I told her I had already finished. She accused me of lying, but when she turned my paper over and saw that the work was indeed done, her face turned a shiny shade of pink. She picked my paper up and looked it over carefully. I didn't know then that she was checking for mistakes, but now I am sure that is what she was doing. Apparently, she couldn't find any errors because a hard look overcame her face. She slapped the paper back on my desk and walked away angrily.

She seemed to hate me from that day on.

Teacher then started encouraging my classmates to ostracize me. I had been well-liked before, but suddenly she labeled me as "poor" and the other kids joined in with her cruel taunts. Timmy  was Teacher's pet. He was often allowed to hold the water fountain spigot on while each person in the line took a quick drink. (Why we couldn't be trusted to hold our own spigot I do not know.) He soon realized that there were brownie points for him when he was mean to me. So when my turn came, he would quickly flip the water off and on, not allowing me to get even one decent swallow. When I tried to sharpen my pencil, he would push me out of line. If I dared complain to Teacher, she would accuse me of lying and getting in the line twice. I was puzzled about why anyone would get in the line twice, but I soon leanred that she thought I was just trying to stay out of my seat.

Being a poor farmer's kid, I was pretty good at solving problems. I learned to get a big drink of water and to sharpen several pencils before Teacher's class began. I also made certain I used the bathroom because it had quickly became apparent that going to the bathroom, when allowed, left me dealing with an irate grown up. I didn't even get out of my seat when my fellow classmates went to the pencil sharpener or the water fountain. I did not raise my hand to go to the restrom. Problems solved.

One evening, in my homeroom class, I remembered that I had forgotten my coat in Teacher's classroom. As soon as I remembered, I went flying back to get it. The bell for the end of the day had already rung and I was afraid that the other kids would be gone and I would have to go into that room all alone with Teacher. I hustled down the hall, and to my great surprise, I saw Teacher making long strides in my direction, holding out my coat in one hand as though it were offensive. As she came nearer, she tossed the coat over my head. I was suddenly terrified that she might hit me while I couldn't see her, so I fought to take it off.

She pointed a long finger at me and said, "Don't you EVER leave your FILTHY things in my room again!"

I can only hope that you will believe me when I tell you that I was not a filthy kid. I knew I was not a dirty child. I was one of those kids who liked being clean, and my mother, who was still in charge of my overall hygiene, was fastidious. Every night she bathed me and I went to bed as fresh as a daisy. Sometimes she gave me a pan bath and sometimes an "all over" bath, but every night I went to bed clean. Even though I knew I wasn't filthy, Teacher's words still crushed me. I couldn't understand why anyone would tell such a lie about me, or about anyone on Earth for that matter!

Instead of returning to homeroom to get my bookbag, books, and homework, like a "good kid", I ran straight outside. I knew my parents would be there to pick me up, so I ran as fast as I could to the safety of their truck. I was crying hard and could only blubber Teacher's name. But that was all my mother needed. She marched straight inside and called Teacher a few choice names before, quite literally, chasing her around the desk. After all these years, I can now laugh at that.

The next day, Teacher told the class, "Dee Dee went crybabying to her mommy because Dee Dee is a crybaby." My eyes filled with tears, and I dropped my head so no one could see them. I did not want to prove her wrong. Teacher continued, "You're gonna be real sorry you went crybabying to your mommy, Dee Dee." She was right. I was sorry already, but I became even more regretful as time drew on.

The remainder of the year seemed like a game of cat and mouse. I was the mouse. During those long months, my classmates learned to carry and to borrow. They learned what a long "O" sounded like and how to spell "happiness".  I learned all of that as well, plus how to keep my head down and pretend to be working long after I had finished an assignment. I would work very slowly, and if I had not worked slowly enough, I would scrub out my answers and put the same numbers or letters back in the same spot. It was a stressful tightrope I walked. If I finished too soon I had to make busy work, too slow and I was in even more trouble. I also learned how to ignore my peers when they called me "nasty", "dirty", "filthy" or "poor". And like a Boy Scout, I learned how to always be prepared with my school supplies. I learned how to hold my water between long bathroom breaks, when to drink, and when not to drink. I learned to handle my own problems in any way that I could. I learned how to endure, and how to survive a bullying adult when I was still a very young child.

The next year, I congratulated myself on making it to a different grade. I hoped that I'd have another kind teacher who would know that I was a "good kid", a clean kid. I hoped for a teacher who loved all her students. But when I went to school on the first day of the year, I learned to my utter horror that Teacher was now teaching a new grade. And my name was on her door. She was now to be my homeroom teacher. With heavy feet and a heaver heart, I walked in and chose a seat near the back of the classroom, knowing that the less she looked at me, the less I would suffer. She soon entered the room and sat down. I fought tears as she began to call the roll.  She got to my name and read it alound with a long pause between the first and last name. Her head snapped up and she glarred at me. She then marched down the aisle and grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out of the room and down the hall to the principal's office. I was certain I was in big trouble already and her grip was painful. She told the principal, "I don't want this student in my classroom. She is nothing but trouble and her mother is crazy! She was my problem last year and she is going to be someone else's problem this year."

The principal moved me into another teacher's room. I now was in the classroom of Mrs. Rose, who loved all of her students and read to us on lazy afternoons. I felt like I had been saved by a sinner! Teacher had unknowingly and uncaringly done something really kind for me in the end.

Many years later, when my own kids were in school, Teacher, who was still working in the school system, was transfered to their school. I visited the principal and calmly explained that my sons were not to be put in her room -- ever! I told him I realized that most kids loved her, but that love was far from what I experienced as her student. I explained to him that I would move if necessary, just to be sure that they were never under her control. I explained that the first time this teacher mistreated them in the halls, or the lunchroom, or anywhere, the school would be under a lawsuit (for a minor offense on her part) or I would be in jail (if it were a larger issue.) If I were put in jail, I told him, my parents would have custody of my sons, and they would then be moved outside his school's district at that time.

I had finally, as an adult, told my parents about that hard year and I knew there was no chance my mother and father would allow this woman to do to my sons what she did to me. The principal was a kind man and I'd never been a problem to him or the school. He assured me that I would not have to move. I sat my young boys down and told them, in a nutshell, how she had treated me when I was a small child. I instructed them that if she were ever mean to them, even a little bit, that they were to tell me so I could take care of it for them. I promised them I would not embarrass them and I would not allow her to be mean to them. I was fully ready to keep both those promises, but she never spoke a word to either of my sons.

One day however, she did make a pitiful attempt to intimidate me as I was picking them up for a dentist appointment. I was searching for a pen or pencil to sign my kids out of class for the day. She reached around me, standing very close to my back, and slammed a pencil down on the counter in front of me. And though I was surprised and insulted, I also felt sad to see that she was still so full of hatred. I had honestly began to wonder if the years and my youth had exaggerated her hatred for me. Now I knew. She still hated me with ten kinds of passion. I double checked with my boys again that day and they said she'd never spoken to either of them. I asked them often over the next few weeks. No, she had not approached them ever. I felt liberated to know they had not felt her anger, and somehow that made me see that she no longer had any power over me, and would not have power over my children. They were never in her room, and even as adult men, they still tell me she never spoke to them and certainly never mistreated them in any way.

Today a group of people came into the cultural center I work in. I am one part information desk attendant and one part docent. This group looked familiar to me somehow, so I asked them if they were from my hometown, which is about two hours away.  They said they were and one lady introduced everyone. One of the women was Teacher.

For a moment, I found myself at a loss for words. After I took a deep breath to compose myself, I looked at Teacher saw that she did not even recognize me. I said, "I was a student of yours."

"Oh really? What's your name?"

I told her my name and then added my maiden name. I told her, "It was a long time ago." For just a moment I wanted to add, "And I am not a little girl any more."

Her eyes immediately looked wary. She had not recognized my face but she did recognize my name. I don't know if she was finally feeling some regret, or if she was concerned that I might embarrass her in front of her friends and family but she looked concerned. Maybe she even thought I might strike her. Her eyes seemed very nervous and she, after all these years, dropped her gaze.

"That was a long time ago. I'm surprised you remembered me."

I wanted to say, "How could I ever forget all those painful lessons?" But I spoke another truth instead. Sometimes we can speak a kinder truth. I said, "I remember every teacher I've  had."

"I do too." She looked at me briefly and with surprise. "But you'd be surprised how many kids forget you."

I just smiled and showed her family around . At one point, Teacher actually rubbed my back as we walked to the counter where she signed the guest sheet. Her touch both unnerved and saddened me. How nice it would have been had she not considered me too unclean to touch when I was a little child. As she signed, I could see the pencil being slammed down again. I saw the paddle being cracked on my desk. And I sighed with relief, knowing those days were gone. When she looked up, I saw again the discomfort in her eyes. It seemed ringed with regret, and I actually felt sorry for her. I tried hard to think of one good thing I could say about those days, but short of, "You sure showed me how tough the world could be," I could not think of a single positive thing to tell her. I am unaccustomed to being at a loss for words.

After her party looked around the cultural center, I asked them what they thought of the place. I invited them to come back later for our grand opening celebration and wished them well as they headed out the door. But I felt sad. This time though, I believed I was possibly sad for HER! That thought blindsided me.

I took a break to reflect on my feelings. I knew I had moved on from the pain that she must have felt back then and had shared freely with me. But I was not so sure that she had moved on.

I found myself wishing she had not been cruel to me because it was hard on both of us. She should have been better to me and to herself. What sort of life had she been living while she tormented a small child? Not a very happy one, surely. I felt free of her anger, a millions smiles beyond her hatred. I understood that in making my own sons safe from her, my heart had been healed. That simple act had taken back the power she had once wrested from a quiet little girl. Protecting my children had put the pain behind me. It had brought me closure and flooded my heart with forgivness. Who knew that keeping two sweet little boys safe could erase the pain in the heart of a mother, a mother that had once been a little girl that was unsafe?


When I look back on those hard days now, it is with a measure of pride. I feel proud of that little girl for learning how to keep things as quite and as pain-free as she could keep them. I'm amazed at her for learning to sharpen her pencils, hold her bladder, and keep her head down. I feel glad that she plowed right through that year and held on to her sanity and her humanity until she'd found the sweet relief of a new, kind teacher. I'm even more proud of the young mother that basically said,  "Okay. You did what you did, and there is nothing we can do about that, but you are not going to treat my children the way you treated me, you simply are not!"  Once again, I find that motherhood has brought me something I needed. Many of the good things in my world, so much of my peace, has slipped in from that surprising corner of my life. I was given two precious lives, and in caring for them, I have learned to care for myself.


If you are under someone's control and they are not kind, remember "This too shall pass." If you are being abused or have been abused, don't let it break you - let it make you. Let it make you stronger and smarter. Pull the good things out of it and throw away the bad. Learn from it, bend with it, find some silver lining to that cloud and hold onto it for dear life. You can turn pain into lessons. Take the steps you can and must in order to survive with your sanity and your humanity. As Theodore Roosevelt said, "Do what you can with what you have where you are." You can survive it until you escape it or outgrow it. No pain lasts forever, but the lessons you learn from it are yours for keeps. I have long outdistanced the pain of her abuse, but the lessons I learned are gifts she unintentionally gave me and cannot take back. She taught me: stand strong, be independent, look when you should, look away when you must, be prepared, watch what you say, watch what you do, don't trust blindly, be stubborn, hold to the truths you know even if you cannot speak of them, be tricky when you must, don't give up, plow on, learn, and grow, and find ways to lessen the pain and the stress until you can escape it, know who you are, press the essence of your secret self deep inside you and protect it with your thoughts and your actions, with all you have and all you are, outgrow pain, escape it, outlive it, move on. WIN!


These are the lessons she taught me, and I'm keeping them. They are mine. They are what matters.