Her name was Mrs. Anderson, and she had a moustache. She went into our Texas History class to substitute one day in 1995, and I’m sure she still hasn’t recovered.
I was always the sweet, helpful student. Substitutes and regular teachers alike would cling to me like a life raft - a life raft afloat in a deep, vast, shark-infested ocean. But I disappointed poor Mrs. Anderson. I tittered when all the other kids scornfully eyed her and coughed “Moustache!” I knew children shouldn’t treat adults like that, but Mrs. Anderson was less than an adult somehow. No threat of punishment emanated from her doughy visage. She looked more like a child. A mustachioed child…or maybe a hamster.
So I kind of lived vicariously through the others. I’d never have spoken “moustache” aloud myself, but I died laughing at everyone else’s rudeness. It was the same thrill you get at a smart-alecky zinger thrown at a bully on a movie. Don’t you sometimes wish you had that kind of nerve? You identify with the little guy who strikes back after being perpetually dominated by the big guy.
Size, age, and facial hair aside, though, Mrs. Anderson was the little guy. She’d only been at Odem Junior High a day, so everyone else had seniority over her. She didn’t know anyone’s name, and it turns out, the sweet, helpful-looking girl with freckles turned out to be a shit. Just like the rest of ‘em.
Fast forward eleven years, and I’m the sacrificial lamb circling the wolves, trying to get them to start the first drafts of their essays. I don’t have a moustache or an extra fifty pounds sloshing around my middle, but I’m still the new kid. I’ve never substituted for the second floor academy, so the students hardly know me. I don’t really know the assistant principal or all the quirky procedures of the floor.
Today was the second day I’ve substituted for Mr. H.’s class. Now that all the students know my name at least, things are easier. Nonetheless, this is not my job. I am not a substitute teacher. Today I had to fight with one boy about getting on the computer. Then a boy tried to look up my skirt. And of course, lunch and homeroom dismissals were rife with controversy. And most students wouldn’t do any work. Yep, not such a bad day.
Mrs. Anderson, I’m sorry. Really.
