Expelled from OG Elementary

I was an angry child. I had “issues”.

Still, our 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Fairfax, was pure evil. She was a bitter old woman and it was her last year of teaching. I wish she had retired one year earlier.

She had a ludicrous point system for rewarding homework or classwork. If she put a gold star on your work it was worth 5 points. A silver star was worth 4 points, a green star 3, a red star 2, and a blue star was worth only 1 point. She must have been a Republican.

Even worse, she turned this silly system into a ridiculous competition. On the classroom wall she put a huge poster board with two columns: GIRLS and BOYS. Every time she put a star on a piece of work, she put a similar star on the poster board. The problem was: she heavily favored the girls over the boys. I was especially outraged in math. I would submit my problems first and every answer was correct, but if lucky, I would get a blue star. Then some little Sheila would submit hers with two mistakes but she would get a silver star.

“That’s no fair!” I protested.

“But Sheila’s work is so neat,” Mrs. Fairfax explained, “and her equals signs are lined up properly.”

In that competition, we boys had about as much chance of winning as a black guy running for President. And in 1972, that wasn’t much, especially since Nixon was cheating anyway.

By September the score was: GIRLS 271 BOYS 31. At Christmas the girls had topped a thousand and the boys hadn’t even reached 100. In June, it was GIRLS 2,987 BOYS 191 and she was still counting.

So the girls wanted to throw a retirement party for her—without the boys! When did they want to do it? During Science Lab—the worst 90 minutes of the week. Naturally, Mrs. Fairfax approved this outrageous proposal, so when Science Lab came, we boys were dragged off to the dungeon to do some horrid experiment while the girls were having a party, singing songs, drinking Sprite and eating cake and candy!

I was steaming mad. “This is SO UNFAIR!” I protested to the other boys, “they’re having a party but we have to do Science Lab.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” agreed the other boys.

I was stewing in my anger and twiddling my meter stick (actually it was a yardstick). Suddenly I had an idea: “hey guys, I said, “let’s run to the classroom with these yardsticks and smash up their stupid party!”

“Really?” they asked.

“Yes, REALLY!” I insisted.

“Will you go first?” they asked.

“Yes, I am El Zorro. I will lead the way!” and I whooshed a “Z” through the air with my yardstick. I was too stupid and too angry to notice that I was being set up.

We were off. The Science teacher started yelling, “where are you going?” but we were running. The other boys were a little apprehensive but I was bold and daring. We got to the classroom and paused. Somebody said, “are we really going to do this?”

I pushed open the classroom door, raised my yardstick, shouted “El Zorro!” and barged into the room. I started smashing everything in sight: cakes, muffins, plastic cups with Fanta Orange, the decorations hanging from the ceiling, you name it. The girls started screaming and crying and they huddled in a corner around Mrs. Fairfax. I turned over a couple of girls’ desks for good measure, and their books and gold-starred papers spilled all over the floor. I stomped on them and then I attacked the competition poster board and slashed it to bits.

I turned around expecting to see the troop of like-minded boys also smashing the party favors. Instead they were all still gathered at the door, yardsticks hidden, gazing at me with eyes wide open and mouths agape. They all wore the same facial expression: I can’t believe he really did it!
That night, my Mom sat by the phone, crying, and taking phone calls from the girls’ angry parents: “How could you raise such a HORRIBLE little boy?”

The principal called my parents into the school. I was not to return to the school. Technically, I don’t think I was expelled. I think my parents agreed to withdraw me and find “a school that better meets his needs.” They sent me to Germany for a year.

And so began a long and twisted journey through many schools, principals’ offices and psychiatrists’ couches. Eventually, my parents took me to Boston to be “tested”. They told my parents that I have a high IQ and I get bored easily at school.

That made my father feel a little better, but they also said: he has “issues”.