Most of us, as we travel through life, acquire a nemesis or two. Holmes had Moriarty, Superman had Lex Luthor, Tom had Jerry. I've had my share of them, schoolyard bullies, underpaid bosses with Napoleonic complexes. But one of the worst I ever had was my sixth grade teacher -- Miss Murray.
Miss Murray and I were chemically predisposed to hate each other. You know the feeling, you walk into a room and meet somebody you've never seen before in your life and the hair stands up on the back of your head and you just don't like the motherfucker! That was me with Miss Murray. It was a crappy school year and we fought, oh we fought, tooth and nail throughout the year. I was upbraided for talking in class, my grades were all above "C"s (which was demanded by my crazy father, but that's another story) and since the numbers couldn't be made to lie, report cards always noted problems with my 'attitude' and 'comportment'. I hated that bitch!
To counter, I used my razor wit to humiliate Miss Murray whenever possible. I was on the lookout for ANY inconsistency in her behavior, directions given to the class, anything! It became obvious, even to my father (this was a man who used to take new teachers a belt and instruct them to 'whip my ass' if I caused them any trouble) that something was not quite right between Miss Murray and I. I even tried to be moved to the other sixth grade teacher's class, but was turned down by the principal and told that I should learn to 'get along' with Miss Murray.
Things continued to deteriorate until The Report incident. This was a milestone in my academic career. The event that taught me that teachers were sometimes, nay MOST of the time, out to get me.
One day in geography class, Miss Murray assigned us all to pick a country and do a report on it. The report was big , I forget the required word count but it was a big project and worth a substantial portion of our grade. I decided that I was going to put Miss Murray in her place. I was going to do the best damned report she'd ever seen...she'd have to give me an A and oh how it would gall her. I then set to work.
First I had to pick a country. I wanted something exotic, but not too exotic. Somewhere with a rich history, about which plenty of information was available, but foreign enough to be not well known or understood by my classmates. After several days of consideration I found the perfect country -- The Phillipines. I then set about learning everything I could about this country and its history. I was a varacious reader as a child. I usually read two to three books a week for fun, plus whatever reading I needed to do for my schoolwork. I tore through books, maps, journals, magazines to prepare for this.
Then the writing began. The requisite four drafts were required before I got the final version. If Shakespeare had written about geography, he would have had to work to match this tome. I mean, I nailed it. The rich history, the indigenous peoples, terrain, current statistics on crops, GNP, you name it. This thing rocked. Then I went to work on the final phase -- sexing it up.
The Report as it became known in my family, was a work of art. It was like an artifact produced in the scriptorium of The Brothers of the Order of Saint Robin the Cowardly. It was ensconced within handmade covers of heavy cardboard hand painted and lettered, and bound with leather laces. It included a forward signed by the Secretary of the Library of Congress (actually I wrote and signed it, but it was pretty good...), a table of contents, bibliography, and index. The text, as previously stated, was excellent and informative. Flowing languidly throughout and drawing the reader into the previously unknown world of Luzon, Manila, Quezon City, etc. Then, the coup de grace, pictures! I raided every National Geographic and periodical I could find to illustrate every point of The Report with maps, graphics, staistics, photographs, satellite imagry, you name it! Remember, this was LONG before the days of personal computers and wikipedia...I went through three pairs of scissors goddammit!
Finally, the day came. The Report was due and I was set to deliver it to Miss Murray and watch her plunge into the depths of despair as she realized that not only would she have to give me the best grade ever for this work, but that a Nobel or at the very least a Pulitzer, were not out of the question. I loaded The Report into a wheelbarrow for transport to the bus stop, then wrestled it into the seat next to me for the journey to school, where, with the help of three friends, I delivered it to Miss Murray's desk.
There is a look that comes to the eyes of an animal when it is threatened. It's a feral set of the eyes that conveys a mixture of pure fear, hatred, and aggression. I've seen it in wild boar, snakes, and raccoon in the field. This is the look I saw in Miss Murray's face as The Report was delivered. Surprisingly, she had no snide comment or complaint at the time. I should have known something was up. You see, at the tender age of, whatever age it is that one is in sixth grade, I had not learned of the lengths a paranoid, hateful adult would go to in order to save face. It never occurred to me that a teacher would actually do what Miss Murray was about to do to one of their young impressionable students.
A week later, we got our reports back. As I carried The Report back to the desktop next to mine, with the help of a couple of classmates, I was bemused by Miss Murray's total lack of comment. I opened the front cover to find my grade staring me in the face - F
You know that camera shot that has become very cliche in movies these days? The one where the camera is in a full face shot of the protagonist and does a zoom in and a pull out (by moving the camera I suspect) at the same time to convey shock, awe, and surprise??? Picture that shot on me!!! I couldn't believe it. F. I searched frantically through The Report. No red ink. No comments. Just a big F. Ahhh, what cunning! What guile! Now it was I who was forced to assume the position of the supplicant and ask Miss Murray about the grade. I skulked up to the desk and asked "Miss Murray, I don't understand about my grade." "What don't you understand Keith?", she asked. "Well maam, you've marked an F at the beginning of The Report, but there are no corrections or comments. I don't understand why I got an F." And then it came. The Explanation. "One of my pet peeves is when a student cuts up National Geographics to illustrate a paper." she said.
!!!!!!
Everything within my peripheral vision blurred. I was shocked...no, I was hurt.....no, I was pissed off! WHAT!?!? "But you never said that using these materials was not allowed" I said. "That's irrelevant, I don't like it and because you've done it, you get an F. I won't discuss it further."
As I drug The Report into the kitchen on the sledge I'd made with my coat and some tree branches, my mother asked how it went. I told her what happened. She couldn't believe it. Even the old man was livid. The next day they accompanied me to school, stormed the principal's office (where they were able to see my endowed chair for the first time) and insisted on a parent-teacher-principal conference to discuss Miss Murray's total mishandling of my education. The fact that the principal had not allowed me to change classes should have been a clue. It was deemed that Miss Murray had acted totally within her prerogative in this matter and I was an asshole.
After a brief vacation I was back to school and ready to do battle for the remainder of the school year. I recovered from the F by getting "A"s on everything for the remainder of the year and went out of my way to make Miss Murray as miserable as possible. She did likewise. Later, I moved on and the incidents of my sixth grade year moved to the back of my conciousness.
It was just the other day that I realized that Miss Murray, despite herself, had actually done me a great service. She had taught me that I should not expect to be treated fairly. That people to whom I would be responsible would not always explain themselves or make their expectations clear, but would still insist on my producing the work they wanted.... In short, she made it possible for me to survive in the corporate world based on my experiences with her.
She was still a bitch.
Miss Murray and I were chemically predisposed to hate each other. You know the feeling, you walk into a room and meet somebody you've never seen before in your life and the hair stands up on the back of your head and you just don't like the motherfucker! That was me with Miss Murray. It was a crappy school year and we fought, oh we fought, tooth and nail throughout the year. I was upbraided for talking in class, my grades were all above "C"s (which was demanded by my crazy father, but that's another story) and since the numbers couldn't be made to lie, report cards always noted problems with my 'attitude' and 'comportment'. I hated that bitch!
To counter, I used my razor wit to humiliate Miss Murray whenever possible. I was on the lookout for ANY inconsistency in her behavior, directions given to the class, anything! It became obvious, even to my father (this was a man who used to take new teachers a belt and instruct them to 'whip my ass' if I caused them any trouble) that something was not quite right between Miss Murray and I. I even tried to be moved to the other sixth grade teacher's class, but was turned down by the principal and told that I should learn to 'get along' with Miss Murray.
Things continued to deteriorate until The Report incident. This was a milestone in my academic career. The event that taught me that teachers were sometimes, nay MOST of the time, out to get me.
One day in geography class, Miss Murray assigned us all to pick a country and do a report on it. The report was big , I forget the required word count but it was a big project and worth a substantial portion of our grade. I decided that I was going to put Miss Murray in her place. I was going to do the best damned report she'd ever seen...she'd have to give me an A and oh how it would gall her. I then set to work.
First I had to pick a country. I wanted something exotic, but not too exotic. Somewhere with a rich history, about which plenty of information was available, but foreign enough to be not well known or understood by my classmates. After several days of consideration I found the perfect country -- The Phillipines. I then set about learning everything I could about this country and its history. I was a varacious reader as a child. I usually read two to three books a week for fun, plus whatever reading I needed to do for my schoolwork. I tore through books, maps, journals, magazines to prepare for this.
Then the writing began. The requisite four drafts were required before I got the final version. If Shakespeare had written about geography, he would have had to work to match this tome. I mean, I nailed it. The rich history, the indigenous peoples, terrain, current statistics on crops, GNP, you name it. This thing rocked. Then I went to work on the final phase -- sexing it up.
The Report as it became known in my family, was a work of art. It was like an artifact produced in the scriptorium of The Brothers of the Order of Saint Robin the Cowardly. It was ensconced within handmade covers of heavy cardboard hand painted and lettered, and bound with leather laces. It included a forward signed by the Secretary of the Library of Congress (actually I wrote and signed it, but it was pretty good...), a table of contents, bibliography, and index. The text, as previously stated, was excellent and informative. Flowing languidly throughout and drawing the reader into the previously unknown world of Luzon, Manila, Quezon City, etc. Then, the coup de grace, pictures! I raided every National Geographic and periodical I could find to illustrate every point of The Report with maps, graphics, staistics, photographs, satellite imagry, you name it! Remember, this was LONG before the days of personal computers and wikipedia...I went through three pairs of scissors goddammit!
Finally, the day came. The Report was due and I was set to deliver it to Miss Murray and watch her plunge into the depths of despair as she realized that not only would she have to give me the best grade ever for this work, but that a Nobel or at the very least a Pulitzer, were not out of the question. I loaded The Report into a wheelbarrow for transport to the bus stop, then wrestled it into the seat next to me for the journey to school, where, with the help of three friends, I delivered it to Miss Murray's desk.
There is a look that comes to the eyes of an animal when it is threatened. It's a feral set of the eyes that conveys a mixture of pure fear, hatred, and aggression. I've seen it in wild boar, snakes, and raccoon in the field. This is the look I saw in Miss Murray's face as The Report was delivered. Surprisingly, she had no snide comment or complaint at the time. I should have known something was up. You see, at the tender age of, whatever age it is that one is in sixth grade, I had not learned of the lengths a paranoid, hateful adult would go to in order to save face. It never occurred to me that a teacher would actually do what Miss Murray was about to do to one of their young impressionable students.
A week later, we got our reports back. As I carried The Report back to the desktop next to mine, with the help of a couple of classmates, I was bemused by Miss Murray's total lack of comment. I opened the front cover to find my grade staring me in the face - F
You know that camera shot that has become very cliche in movies these days? The one where the camera is in a full face shot of the protagonist and does a zoom in and a pull out (by moving the camera I suspect) at the same time to convey shock, awe, and surprise??? Picture that shot on me!!! I couldn't believe it. F. I searched frantically through The Report. No red ink. No comments. Just a big F. Ahhh, what cunning! What guile! Now it was I who was forced to assume the position of the supplicant and ask Miss Murray about the grade. I skulked up to the desk and asked "Miss Murray, I don't understand about my grade." "What don't you understand Keith?", she asked. "Well maam, you've marked an F at the beginning of The Report, but there are no corrections or comments. I don't understand why I got an F." And then it came. The Explanation. "One of my pet peeves is when a student cuts up National Geographics to illustrate a paper." she said.
!!!!!!
Everything within my peripheral vision blurred. I was shocked...no, I was hurt.....no, I was pissed off! WHAT!?!? "But you never said that using these materials was not allowed" I said. "That's irrelevant, I don't like it and because you've done it, you get an F. I won't discuss it further."
As I drug The Report into the kitchen on the sledge I'd made with my coat and some tree branches, my mother asked how it went. I told her what happened. She couldn't believe it. Even the old man was livid. The next day they accompanied me to school, stormed the principal's office (where they were able to see my endowed chair for the first time) and insisted on a parent-teacher-principal conference to discuss Miss Murray's total mishandling of my education. The fact that the principal had not allowed me to change classes should have been a clue. It was deemed that Miss Murray had acted totally within her prerogative in this matter and I was an asshole.
After a brief vacation I was back to school and ready to do battle for the remainder of the school year. I recovered from the F by getting "A"s on everything for the remainder of the year and went out of my way to make Miss Murray as miserable as possible. She did likewise. Later, I moved on and the incidents of my sixth grade year moved to the back of my conciousness.
It was just the other day that I realized that Miss Murray, despite herself, had actually done me a great service. She had taught me that I should not expect to be treated fairly. That people to whom I would be responsible would not always explain themselves or make their expectations clear, but would still insist on my producing the work they wanted.... In short, she made it possible for me to survive in the corporate world based on my experiences with her.
She was still a bitch.
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