We saw you, Pervert, couldn’t not see you, given how Ms. Gelpner had arranged her classroom, with two sections, each facing the other across an aisle up and down which she could pace-lecture and we could stare-compare ourselves to one another.
She was a passionate, courageous teacher whose favorite discussions were about Feminism, Racial Prejudice, and Political Revolt. Still, she was no match for the show that you’d recently started putting on for us, you Freak; keeping your navy blue windbreaker on in class, the pockets rigged so your hands could get around deep down. You dressed like a guy, walked like a guy, never spoke in class, didn’t trust eye contact. But I wouldn’t say you were shy.
You wanted us to see you come, Creep, your face a flash flood, flushed with blood like a baby being born. Teeth soundlessly chattering, eyes rolling back, trying to stay still while the legs of your desk gently rumbled.
I felt used by you, Psycho. I loved the suspense—Will she? Won’t she?—but was disgusted by your lack of self-respect. Ms. Gelpner never even noticed what you were doing. She lived in a teacher bubble outside of which we must have been little more than raw material for her to sculpt in her own image. Until January 15th, that is. That was the day she brought in a phonograph and a record to play for us in class.
“Today is Martin Luther King Junior’s Birthday,” she announced. “Happy Birthday, Marty.” She blew a noisemaker and took the LP out of its sleeve with shaky hands and began to set it up for us. Right about then I saw with my peripheral vision that you were moving your hands into your pockets, getting in position. The show was beginning. It would take awhile but I expected you would get there with our watching eyes.
But that isn’t how things went down, Degenerate. It was Ms. Gelpner’s face, not yours that turned red as a baby’s, awash in tears, mouth agape and sobbing uncontrollably at the lecturn, sounding like a mother whose children have just been taken from her. My attention shifted completely, as I imagine did yours and everybody else’s.
From the phonograph, archival soundclips played. They were recordings made by the press of the mayhem immediately following the shootings: of JFK in ’63, MLK in ’64, and Bobby Kennedy in ’68, each successive assasination bracketed by a fresh chorus of, “What The World Needs Now Is Love.”
Ms Gelpner moaned “Why? Why?” again and again before dropping onto her knees, emptied. The classroom had ceased to exist for her, even after the record ended. The bell rang, thank god, and everybody quickly exited, leaving her behind.
The next day, Gelpner wasn’t there, or the day after that, or ever again. Her replacement liked to carry a yardstick as he taught, to bring down hard on the desk of anyone not paying close enough attention.
I often wonder what became of Ms. Gelpner, and of you, dear peculiar, deviant classmate.
whoa - the people we share the world with.
Ay yi yiii! Middling student in English class here wonders if this is an allegory for our high-jacked attentions—admittedly we’re witnessing wild stories wherever our attentions land these days (spiral eyes emoji)