Cast Out

I was kicked out of vacation bible school for drawing mushroom clouds on and inside of the bible.
I was in third grade and I didn't have a herectic bone in my body- yet.

But I was a doodler; no piece of paper was safe. I filled notebooks and when they were done I would tear out the blank pages in the backs of our household books. Sometimes I wouldn't even bother tearing them out.
I would also write song lyrics in the backs of books. I listened to anything because I loved all music, much of what I listened to would be the source of much embarrassment in the following years.
It was not uncommon to finish a book in our house and to find, in the back, lyrics by Cyndi Lauper, George Jones, The Monkees, or "We Are the World."

My father was never outwardly religious but seemed proud or at least satisfied that I would want to go to church. It was only a few blocks way and I would be the only person in the family to make the early morning trek.
Looking back I guess I can see that my religious appetite was secondary to my desire to interract more with people, most specifically girls. I don't believe it did anything to enhance my social skills.
I was very interested in religion but never fully convinced. I was surely a "believer" though I knew I had a lot to learn about what I really believed. When the invitation to be "saved" arose, I recall it always being very bothersome. I felt like everybody else must have the right idea and there was something wrong, maybe even evil in me that kept me from buying it fully. They had no issue at all in the hearts and minds with the highly unlikely existence of an omniscient, omnipotent, infallible deity...but I couldn't rid my mind of ALL doubt. So it seemed pointless to give my life to Jesus Christ only for him to be able to read my dark thoughts and inevitably stumble across my doubts.
I was a serious bible reader though; I remain one. The bible remains the most powerful weapon against Judaeo-Christianity. Look no further when wanting to mount a defense against the armies of god. THE doctrine for their said beliefs is packed full of contradictions, sexism, racism, murder, incest, ridiculous claims, false promises, and generation after generation of apologists that seek to mend it's history bit-by-bit. Selah.

I enjoyed vacation bible school. What kid wouldn't? It had it all: pizza, crafts, spring weather, and a few friendly faces.
However, there was that whole sitting in church for a couple of hours. This aspect didn't agree with my energy level at that age. While I had an interest in religion, a "devotion", you might say, it was never quite so magical when taught to me by simpletons that couldn't keep their post-Sunday lifestyles consistent with their sabbath personas.
That and they were just dull people.

It's one of those situations where it didn't seem AT ALL to be a problem, an offense...not even worth registering as a concern. I ran out of paper so I began to doodle on some of the blank, thin paper in the back of a bible. Honestly, the years have erased my recollection of whether it was my personal bible or one that was available to me in the pew in front of me. Either way, it was the word of god and I was scribbling in it and someone took notice.

It was a scene straight out of some coming-of-age lame-o movie: I was grabbed with quite a bit of force- pulled by my shirt out of my seat- and pushed into a small room.
"Sit down and wait."

The room was adorned with the usual Sunday school decor: posters of a snowy white Jesus in a sort of Fisher-Price animation style, cradling children and animals. They looked happy. I imagine they were at least comfortable in robes and sandals.
It hit me suddenly- how ignorant I was to the situaiton. I felt like a moron.

OF COURSE they were pissed off. You drew in and on the goddamned bible! Not just a little- a lot.
The obvious things tend to avoid me until it is too late. This is one of my earliest examples. It's a condition that continues to this day.

It wasn't long before a few people filed in. A total of four or five of Ninnekah Oklahoma's most notorious church personalities entered the room advertising different expressions of disapproval.
They flipped through the bible and were agast by what they saw. I had defaced the word of god with many, MANY mushroom clouds.
They were fun to draw. I was fascinated with war, history...especially WWII to Nixon-era, the years my father could tell me stories about. I drew battle scenes and armies. So...you needed a big mushroom cloud to end it all in some of those drawings.

It was very much a good cop/bad cop scene. Only two addressed me directly; one was yelling and super-pissed and then there was the gentle lamb of a man named Don. I knew Don pretty well. He had two terrible children that treated him like shit and a wife that I never, ever saw him with. If there was one homosexual in Ninnekah, it was Don. (I know there were plenty more though.)
Don was very inquisitive, asking why I drew in the bible and what significance the mushroom cloud might have to me. I don't even recall mounting much of an explanation before the more explosive interrogator began yelling that I had done about the worst thing a human being could do and that I surely face hell unless I had the right answers. Don would answer for me, saying that maybe I drew them because I felt that god will protect us from such horrors. Then the bad cop would respond that I was a vandal and a blasphemer. Straight to hell.
The only answer I managed to squeak out was "I think they're cool."
I think I got a chance to apologize. I don't recall.

It was decided that I was to leave and not come back. I was being kicked out. It was more than a bit embarrassing as it had turned into a bit of a spectacle.

I walked home which was only a few blocks away. I felt bad. They had really gotten to me.
Within an hour of being home I was enjoying the gorgeous weather, tuning out my eternal damnation.

Fifth Grade

WARNING: This entry contains language and scenarios that might be unsuitable for those who have never spent much time around a kid with a rat-tail, living in a trailer park in Oklahoma. Approach with caution and an open heart.


I don't remember how it started out very well. It was a strange time, though.

I read a lot. I didn't like any of the music that other kids liked. I spent a lot of time walking around, shaking my head in disgust as Aerosmiths' "Permanent Vacation" and Guns'n'Roses' "Appetite for Destruction" poured from coutless ghetto blasters.
I despised that stuff (Still do, for the record.). At home I mainly listened to 60's music and classic country; mostly Keith Whitley, The Monkees, Johnny Cash, Michael Jackson, and assorted other oddities. (Well, odd for a kid my age.)

Oh, Michael Jackson. I would go in and out of phases. He wasn't that cool to kids around where I was at, ever, even if "Bad" was #1 in the rest of the country with six #1 singles
I began to miss "Thriller", so I decided to buy it from my best friend Kenneth. Being a "rock'n'roll kid", he was ashamed to have it. I met him secretly in the boy's bathroom to make the exchange like it was a drug deal: a five dollar bill for the cassette. Done deal.
Then I didn't care for it as much as I did when I bought it in first grade.

I was asked "Hey, why don't you like Bon Jovi?"
"Umm. I guess because they're fags."
I was threatened with physical violence for many weeks after saying that.
I still might stand by that statement....

I read a book about Russia. From then on, I decided that I was an expert on the Soviet Union and would take any opportunity to spout out little known facts about Soviet history, often glamorizing it just to get a reaction.
It always worked. I remember one little girl referring to me only as "the Russian devil."

I had a teacher named Mrs. Watkins; an incredibly foul beast. She was younger than most teachers but she was every bit the ignorant bigot that most of the other, older teachers in my school were.
I disagreed with her early on. I dont even remember where it started but the issue set the pace for our relationship. From then on, she enjoyed trying to embarrass me as much as possible and even admitted it.
Ididn't mind much as I was thoroughly convinced that I was surrounded by morons.

One time we were studying Oklahoma History which is actually very interesting. Primarily it deals with Native Americans, the land run, and oil.
We got to the chapter covering "The Trail of Tears". If you aren't aware, that was when the United States government gathered up all the Indians they could and told them to pack their shit for Oklahoma, which was designated "Indian Territory". Many thousands died on the migration as it was winter and they didn't have the necessities for the trip. Once they got to Oklahoma, many of them were unfamiliar with the land so they didn't know how to farm it or hunt effectively. Plenty more died.
Mrs. Watkins had us read the chapter and then told us that it just didn't happen that way. She pulled out a picture album with a newspaper clipping that was as old as I was. She passed it around for all of us to read. It explained that the Indians went by their own free will in exchange for alcohol and some blankets.
Even at that young of an age, I thought that this news source was a wee bit suspect. It looked like it could have been taken from the National Enquirer.
I asked the boy sitting next to me (Christian Barrios) if he believed this horse shit. He said "Well, yeah. I mean...it's right here in the paper."
THE paper?

So, I got around to revenge for the humiliation, the bullshit...and I guess I was a bitter little bastard anyways.

Watkins put on THE elemetary play every year. I say THE because she was always the one who organized it, planned it, casted it...everything. In 1988, her production was going to be "The Emporer's New Clothes". This was her pride.
I was determined to ruin the damn thing.
So, I auditioned. I was asked what part I wanted to read for, and I said the part of "Con". (The character with the most lines, being one of the two con-men in the story.)

I read for the part and I did it with every bit of my all. And she was shocked. Stuned. She couldn't believe how well I held up reading, acting- with enthusiasm, even.
I got the part and a heart-to-heart. Her hand on my shoulder and everything.
"Why Ben, you did really, really well. You stole the show."

The weeks of auditions were the stuff nightmares are made of. I hated most of those kids and I hated that bitch Watkins more than all of them combined. But I HAD to endure it. I was on a mission.
One girl I was sort of friends with had one of the props fall on her. It her squarely in the head. It was a big wood frame, probably six feet wide and ten feet tall. It had construction paper on it and it was suppose to be a tree. Why you need a giant, hazardous, frame of 2x4's to make a construction paper tree, I cannot tell you. We were in her hands.

Finally, it was the night before the play. The last rehearsal. Everybody was nervous. Christian B. was cast the part of the Emporer and was already ill with nervousness, claiming to had urinated some blood.
Then, before rehearsal started...as everybody gathered...I told her. I told her I wasn't doing it.
You coulda' heard a pin drop...if you coulda' got it out of that woman's ass. Her stare screamed "I HATE YOU. DIE."

She asked "Why?", and I told her that I just wasn't doing it. I wasn't even clever with an excuse. Did I need to be? I didn't think "You're a racist, hateful, and shallow creature" would be something I could tell her at that age. (I would love to now, though.)
I had to be replaced by a girl, Lori S., at the last minute. Watkins was determined to make this play happen.
And, it sucked. Bad. I was such the ass that I biked up to the auditorium and hung around the back to listen in. Poor little Lori bombed line after line. I giggled with glee each time.
Following that, Mrs. Watkins went to new extremes to torment me. Somehow this was more pleasurable for me as I felt that I had topped her. Of course, that was the year where I got my first D, having been an A student every grade prior. Oh well.

Later in the year we got a student teacher. She came into the room and every eye was fixed on this very attractive and young college girl. She was going to take over for half of the day for a few weeks. Her name was Mrs. Hargis. I don't remember her first name, but I remember her leaving her checkbook out, and seeing that she had a husband named Brian.
Mrs. Hargis learned a lot from Watkins. She proved to be just as ruthless. She FEARED kids and made damn sure that they didn't have any free time at home; a homework fiend. She was hated within a few days.

She assigned the most ridiculously long homework assignment for a long, holiday weekend. The whole class groaned at once. Well, except for me. I shook my head and just said "Slut" under my breath and through clenched teeth.
I don't know where it came from. Well, I mean...I don't know WHY I said "slut" of all things. As far as the word goes, my father used it at least ten times a day but it usually had "fucking" in there somewhere and was never assigned a meaning.
Again, Lori Seibold makes her way into my childhood memories as she told Mrs. Hargis who the guilty bastard was. I think my friend Kenneth even had something to do with the squeal. (Kenneth update: He's fat, a drug addict, and has hair down to his ass.)
She took me away into the principal's office. The principal was a large, mostly Native American man named John Nations. I liked him. (I don't think I ever got the pleasure of sharing Mrs. Watkins' "Trail of Tears" theory with him, though.)
He was a large and intimidating man though, and you surely didn't want to upset the guy. He emerged from behind a door...and his face told me that he had been fitted with all of the details of the incident.
I was fucked. John Nations was on the warpath and he was surely going to stomp the obscenities right out of me.
So, I had to defend myself.

I started to work up tears as I asked "What did I do wrong???"
He told me that I had said something horrible. A bad word.
I asked what it was. He told me that he wouldn't say it, but is started with an "s", and ended with a "t".
I said "You mean SLUT?"
The shock registered on the chief's face. "Where did you hear that word???"
I choked a bit, explaining that I couldn't say...because it might get someone in a lot of trouble.
He said to tell him. He explained that whoever the guilty person was would just have to be talked to and told how bad of a word it is.
So I told him. "I heard it from Mrs. Hargis."

As a child, I read a lot. I read a lot in the hallway on recess next to the teacher's lounge and I heard all kinds of foul language out there. I had heard her say a lot worse than that. It was a well known fact in that small school that I was the weirdo who sat in the hall and read on recess- by the teacher's lounge.
Mr. Nations looked at peace.
"I understand. Go back to class."
I never heard another word about it.