Miss.Vellote
and the begining of the
Destruction of self.
Kindergarten. Garden of children
where the hungry minds are
awaiting direction, awaiting a
sense of I am who? A learning
place on the most basic level.
To be nourished and cared for
away from home.
Her name escapes me though
her words to mother remained
as bright and crisp as an autumn day.
"I thought she was making an
issue of it." An issue? Mother, wrathful,
was having none of it. How could you
send my daughter home with a
broken arm?
First impressions,tend to have
lasting consequences.
I learned to not complain
of hurts or pain.
Miss velotte unsmiling and dour
in second grade, who well on her way
to spinsterhood would not
ever deserve to have that womb
filled with child.
She the taskmaster
as we children sat at the lunch table
with Mis Velotte's beady eyes.
watching as we played roll the
hard-boiled egg back and forth.
She watched with displeasure
at our gleeful roll the egg game.
The egg was in my court, laughing
I went for the grab but Miss Velotte
was faster like the quick tongue
of a lizard grabing the unsuspecting
prey, she grabbed the hard boiled
egg and smashed it into my mouth.
I never told mother that.
I learnedhumiliation.
In the fith grade I sat admiring my
strong brown arms in my favorite
sleevless dress. Aat ten I began to
notice boys. Nice italian boys. I was
captivated by Danny Toriello. Watching
him out of the corner of my eye.
at ten I liked me and felt full
of myself.
As the school year closed Miss Marks
summoned mother to the classroom.
"I have held her back, she did not
pass and must repeat the grade." She,
Miss Mmarks, tried to make nice. As I
stood there she said "she has the cutest
pot belly," smirking in a way that wasn't cute.
I learned shame. I learned failure.
For many years after, blouses,
never tucked in, I covered up that
belly of a seventy pound ten year old.
With all I had learned, through those
formative years I re-entered the fifth grade
in Albion, for thankfully we had moved to
Point Breeze. No one knew me there. No
one knew of my stifled pain, my humiliation,
shame nor failure. Just me. I knew. and I
determined, would make them know too.
Passing fifth into sixth and on to high school
in the seventh grade. On a blackboard in Mr.
Bellanca's class I scrawled "fuck". I don't know
where that came from. But Mr. Bellanca knew.
Mother came to bail me out. I was kicked out
and back in. In and out with mother's help.
Creating havoc in every class. raging, flunking
everything but english, writing, and art. f's.
f's, f's. every class flunked. I was a flunker.
It was complete. I was a failure. I was
shameful.
I turned my humiliation and rage into
a person to be reckoned with. The kids on the
regents track to college looked at me as one
who hung with the "hoods". sharks and the jets.
finally of age I stood for myself.
And with an absence of manners viewed
the endless notes of dry history to be
painfully copied and memorized for what?
I quit. I said, as I stood up and announced
to the class and teacher, who said "you can't.
you need your mother's permission."
And I, in my newly found courage replied:
"I'm 18 and I can do what I want." I closed
my book and dropped it off in the office
of the principle, Mr. Anderson.
my education had just finally begun.
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