Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Mr. MacDonald is a Liar or How I Became a Feminist

Winter, 1970

I get to school and all the cheerleaders have pants on. What's going on here?

There was an announcement over the loud speaker last night after school let out for the day that girls would be allowed to wear pants to school during the winter months.

Lot of good this announcement did most of us. We are talking New England here - we are all running around in the miniest of mini-skirts during snow blizzards, freezing rains, wind chills below zero. That's right, back in the olden days, girls had to wear skirts or dresses to school all year long. The cheerleaders just happened to have practice yesterday afternoon and got the news before anyone else.

Let's get one thing straight right from the start. These weren't dungarees. These weren't khakis. These were adorable pants suits in bright hues. Matching pants and jackets or vests.

We were tracked in those days - college bound kids all in the same classes; shop kids in others. So there was not much interaction except with your own groups. But word started to spread after home room let out for first period. Everyone sees the cheerleaders walking between classes. A couple of the tough girls are wearing pants too. They had detention the night before so heard the announcement.

There doesn't seem to be much of a reaction from teachers; at least not any we are aware of immediately. Nothing from Mrs. Collins, my 9th grade homeroom and French teacher. She who put a boy of 13 or 14 in a corner for some infraction of her own personal set of rules has no comment.

Fourth period is Science with Mr. MacDonald. It's also lunch period. I sat in the first seat of the last row, Carol beside me and Jeannie behind me. Cheerleaders in pants. Mr. MacDonald rolled his chair from behind his desk and into his usual spot, in front of and between Carol and me. Today was no different, he leaned back in the chair and started pontificating on … who knows what.

The classroom was unbelievable hot. That was probably not that unusual. There were radiators in every class and they either worked too well or not at all. What was unusual was that he didn't have the windows open to counter balance the heat pouring out of the radiators.

Mr. MacDonald always sent one of the boys across the street to get his lunch from the sub shop. Always boys. Apparently girls could not be trusted to cross the street, could not be trusted with money. Could not be trusted, period.

So today, he asks, “Which one of the boys are going to get my lunch today?”

We all know he’s going to pick who he wants from among the boys and no one ever raises their hands.

“How about Lisa?”

She’s the head cheerleader. She’s in pants. Lisa is out of her chair, up the aisle and across the front of the room, grabbing the money from his hand and out the door before he even realizes that his plan backfired. She’s not humiliated; she is thrilled to be the center of attention and to get out of school if only for 10 minutes.

He tries to cover, leaning even further back in his chair. “It’s so comfortable in here.”

"What a liar." Wow, under my breath but still out of my mouth. Me. Straight As, never says boo to anyone.

“Did you just call me a liar?”

Not a pause of even one second.

“What you said was a lie.”

“Detention,” then continues along with the class as if nothing had happened.

Lunch and two more periods until the end of the day. At 2:30, the cheerleaders get told in homeroom that they have detention too.

They didn’t get the form giving consent to wear pants signed by their parents. Doesn’t matter that we all knew that there was no form last night. One of the business ed. girls (read Future Secretaries of America), worked in the office during lunch period. By the time last period arrived, she had successfully broken through all lines of communication between groups and let it be known that she copied the form that day during her work-study in the office.

So it’s me, most of the cheerleaders and a couple of boys who had gotten detention for one reason or another in Mrs. Collin’s room at 2:31.

This was the first time any of the girls had gotten detention so when it seemed like it was just sitting in the room for an hour, we were all a little relieved.

Again, because of the wonders of the alphabet, I’m in the first seat of the last row, Carol next to me, Jeannie behind me.

And what is the magical pull of this space in front of Carol and me. That’s where Mrs. Collins and Mr. Madden, the other French teacher, set up their tea and crumpets at 2:30 just like they do every morning at 10:30.

Two classrooms of 30 kids each sitting there for 10-15 minutes waiting for the teachers to drink tea and stuff their faces. The door is open between the classrooms so Mr. Madden can hear if anything untoward is going on in his class.

I’m told to go stand in the hall. I suffer out there for a few minutes and then hear the clicking of her heels as she makes her way across the wooden floor to the door.

While most likely of normal height, I was a small girl and she seemed like a giant. Older woman, dyed black frizzy hair. Big nose. Big through the hips. She lisps and spits when she talks (do I need to remind you of my seat in the classroom and the favored location from which to teach?).

I think I must have gone into some kind of a trance. I don’t remember being asked what happened. I don’t remember being asked for any explanation for what I had said. Most likely I wasn’t asked. Mr. MacDonald's version of the incident was enough.

I don’t remember anything she said until she told me I had to apologize to Mr. MacDonald. I burst into tears.

She went back into the classroom and left me out there. I remember sitting on the stairs. Mr. MacDonald’s room was one floor directly above Mrs. Collins’.

I know I wasn’t crying when I got to his room. Just him. Behind his desk. I have to walk all the way from the door in the back of the room to the front where the desk is.

“Mrs. Collins sent me up here to apologize.”

Silence. I not going to cry.

“Is that all?”

“Mrs. Collins sent me up here to apologize.” Still, not crying.

“Are you going to?”

Silence. I look up and for one brief moment hold eye contact.

“I guess not.”

“Get back to detention.”

That was it, no yelling, no screaming, no nothing. “Get back to detention?”

I went back down the stairs to Mrs. Collins’ room; I went back to my first seat, last row. I went back to being a straight A student (well, Mr. MacDonald did give me a D in deportment for that quarter but you’re not going to hold that against me, are you?). But I never really went back; the jig was up.

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