The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round and Round and Round and OMG SHUT UP

There was a news story here recently about a bus driver who got arrested for duct taping a student’s mouth shut, which I thought was kind of funny until I read it and found out he was a scary crazy person and the child was developmentally disabled and he had been abusing her, so it stopped being funny and started being more disturbing and evil than anything. But it did start me thinking about taking the bus to school.

I hated the bus. Hated. HAAAATED. I lived in the country, so the bus ride to school was a long one, and we stopped constantly to pick up other kids who lived in the middle of nowhere. Our bus was the one that no driver wanted to be in charge of. It was full of naughty kids and evil kids and downright cruel kids. The bus ride to and from school every day was one of the worst memories I have of school, and I have a lot of them.

Apparently, things have changed since I was young, but when I was a kid (stop with the old jokes, I know, I’m ancient) every age from kindergarten to senior year rode the same bus to school. That’s a recipe for disaster right there, isn’t it? I mean, put a bullying, hormonal fifteen-year-old on a bus with a sweet, innocent seven-year-old and see what happens. It was like Lord of the Flies on that bus.

I even remember my very first day on the bus: I sat next to another kindergartener (hi, Rich, who I totally don’t talk to anymore and I’m pretty sure doesn’t remember me!) and he taught me cusses. Then he told me I should say them to the busdriver. Which I did, because I didn’t know they were dirty words. So I got in trouble the first day for telling the busdriver “Hi my name is Shit Asshole” if I remember correctly. (I was a really sheltered 4-year-old. Yes, 4. I started school a year early due to my superior intellect. FINE it was because my birthday was in October. And actually I was a really sheltered child altogether. I didn’t utter the f-word aloud until senior year. I thought I would be struck by lightning. In third grade, another child said to me “I bet you don’t even know what a VIRGIN is!” and I said, very haughtily, “Yes, I do. A virgin is the mother of JESUS.” I was a total and complete catch!)

Some things I remember from my years of taking the bus to school:

• An upperclassman with a broken leg forcing his minions to bring younger children to the back of the bus so he could hold them down and stamp them in the middle of the forehead with the rubber grip on the bottom of his crutch, which was filthy with the gross snowy grime from the bus floor
• A busdriver who lost his marbles and drove into a field (we lived in the country, there were a lot of fields on our drive) with a bus half-full of children and sat in the seat, rocking and singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and refusing to answer anyone who spoke to him until finally one of the kids figured out how to use the walkie-talkie and radioed the bus garage and they sent another bus and driver to rescue them
• A busdriver who decided to record the bad language the students were using on his bus because he was a preacher and kept telling them they were going to hell and God hated them , so he brought in a hand-held recorder and kept clicking it on while driving and swerving all over the road trying to catch really naughty cusses
• A weird bully kid who had a psychotic break and one day stopped bullying kids and instead sat in his seat singing “takes a better man, to turn the other cheek, takes a better man to walk away” in a tuneless voice with dead, dead eyes
• A girl who decided it was her duty to shove kids out of their seats, so every day, she chose another child, and would shove them out of their seat onto the disgusting bus floor
• Whorey kids who totally did it in the back seat underneath their jackets (listen, the bus ride home was long, but not THAT long, that’s kind of impressive, right?)
• All the kids deciding it would be hilarious to throw paper airplanes at the busdriver while he was driving and almost causing an accident; this did not phase them, however, and the following week, it was spitballs, followed by those bouncy balls you could get out of vending machines, those paper throwing stars kids folded out of notebook paper, notebook paper balled up (that one didn’t take a lot of imagination but there are only so many things you can throw, really) and apples

Listen, seriously, can you even IMAGINE being a busdriver? I assume it’s a little better nowadays – the busses are segregated by age-group, and a lot more upperclassmen have cars than they used to – but I can’t even imagine how insane a person must have been to want to drive a bus full of children who would not sit down and would not be quiet and would not behave and were THROWING PROJECTILES AT THEM WHILE THEY WERE ATTEMPTING TO STAY ON THE ROAD. I’m not saying I was completely innocent, here. I was kind of a dick on the bus. I mean, I wasn’t hurling spitballs, or anything, but when the busdriver told me to sit down and shut up, I didn’t. I think I actually got sent to the principal’s office in middle school for misbehaving on the bus, but I haven’t the foggiest what exactly I was doing that merited that. It was almost 25 years ago, so my memory’s a little blurry. What, do YOU remember exactly what you were doing 25 years ago? I thought not. Pipe down, junior. I obviously didn’t get kicked out of school so it couldn’t have been too heinous.

I would be the worst busdriver ever. First, I can’t even deal with kids. CAN. NOT. DEAL. You know how some people have the patience of Job? I have the patience of not-Job. I have the patience of someone who is utterly the opposite of Job. Which is why, until I found out it was a scary upsetting story, the duct-tape thing sounded like something that was actually possibly a somewhat rational reaction. You’re driving a bus full of children, and it’s your job to get those kids to and from school safely. You have to deal with asshats on the road who don’t pay attention to your lights and stop signs, and you have to make sure the kids crossing the road don’t get killed, and you have to make sure the kids on the bus are seated and not killing each other, and you have to, oh, I don’t know, DRIVE. This job is harder than an air traffic controller’s job. THERE ARE TOO MANY THINGS GOING ON. Why don’t we hear about more people dying in flaming bus accidents? I have trouble paying attention when I’m driving my car and it’s just me and I want to change the damn radio station, can you even fathom how bad my ADD would kick in if you factored in 50 screaming children all hell-bent on destroying the vehicle, me, and each other? Oh, hell, no.

So listen, I totally get it now, guy who drove into the field and rocked and rocked and sang nursery rhymes. You just got overwhelmed! It is understandable! How could you not? Kids are mean. Mean and nasty. And they DO NOT LISTEN. The preacher guy? He used to say “Sit down and BE STILL” over and over and OVER to us and we’d totally ignore him. Or laugh. Because “be still” was a funny thing to say. I mean, was it 1887 and we were in an old-timey horse-and-buggy contraption? Who says “be still?” But then recently I found out he died and that was sad. I mean, he didn’t die because of the busdriving, or anything, but I didn’t mean him any harm, and that was a tough gig, the busdriving. He just wanted us to sit down and be still! And we were not being still. And we were cussing! And he thought we were going to hell for it. That – well, that was a little disturbing but it was a small town and we took who we could get.

We also had a guy who was a dead ringer for Otto from The Simpsons and I loved him. He most likely was stoned off his gourd the entire time he drove us around and at one point he just disappeared and we never saw him again, but he was so laid-back and just did not care. And honestly, when he drove, the bus was quieter and better-behaved. I don’t know what that was all about. We might have been soothed by a contact high, now that I think about it.

I’m still a little confused about the sex people, though, honestly. How does that even work? I mean, was it actual sex-sex? Those bus seats aren’t very long. And we were kids. Country kids. We weren’t very knowledgeable about positioning and whatnot. Not to be crass, but I guess I get handjobs or whatever, or even (but ew, really, on a BUS? In FRONT of people?) blowjobs but actual penetrative sex? I’d think it was a rumor except someone got pregnant from it. I’m not a parent but I think this is something parents need to worry about. Parents! Talk to your kids about this phenomenon that was happening 20-some years ago! It needs to be addressed! At least tell them if they’re going to do it, have a little self-respect and not to do it on the bus. Those seats are filthy. And they’re just going to get a nickname, like Backseat Boogie or Ella the Bus Whore which I totally did not make up at all and was the name of someone at my school. Fine, not her REAL name, she didn’t put it on the top of standardized TESTS or anything, but that’s what people called her. Because she had SEX on a BUS. And bee tee dubs? It wasn’t even at night. It was after school. The sun was still up. That is super-whorey. And also quite sad.

So listen! When we are celebrating people in our society who have the most thankless jobs, like sanitation workers and such, I think we need to give a shout-out to the busdrivers. Because DAMN but that must suck and you totally must make an appointment to get sterilized after the third full day of work. So, busdrivers! You have my thanks. And also, I promise, if I ever have children, I will drive them to school myself. Dickery is genetic and I wouldn’t want to subject that on any other busdrivers. I’ve harmed enough people already.

Banished Forever to Hell; Today Have I Been Expelled

I promised I'd talk about this, and the time is now. Yes, it's true. I got booted out of churchschool. And even more distressing: I'm still, almost two decades later, irrationally proud of how it went down.

In high school, our church got a new priest. Our old priest - who I mentioned in an earlier post - was beloved by all. Honestly, there wasn't anyone who didn't adore this man. However, if anyone's aware of how the church works, they move priests around a lot. Our priest was very, very good. Very passionate, excellent at getting people involved who wouldn't normally be, getting a community together where it had just been a group of disparate people before - he was a pro at this. So he was in high demand. The powers that be kept him in our area longer than they normally do, but after a while, he got his reassignment and they moved him to a town an hour away, and we got a new priest.

Google tells me this man is still a priest, (and has quite a wide Internet footprint) so I'll be circumspect and give him an alias - because it's going to be confusing if I don't. I'm also going to try to be as nice as I can, here. Let's call him...Voldemort.

I was heartbroken to lose the priest that I'd loved and who'd inspired me for years, but my parents tried to assure me that the church wouldn't send us someone evil. I was predisposed to hate this replacement; as we've learned about me, I make snap decisions.

I was willing to let it go that Voldemort looked, talked, and acted like a used car salesman moving in on a country rube about to spend the year's mortgage on a lemon. I was willing to let it go that his sermons were long, dry as dust, and completely uninspiring. I had a little harder time letting go how he talked down to me. I still have this problem - I don't have a lot, but I am an intelligent woman. If you've gotten to know me and you find I'm mentally deficient, then fine, by all means, talk down to me (I can't be held responsible for what I might do or say to you, but you gave it a chance, so I can't fault you for that, I suppose.) Voldemort was one of those adults who assumed everyone under the age of twenty must be an automatic idiot. He used a baby voice. I was in high school. This didn't go over well. He was also very, very patronizing. He'd say things like "Oh! Amy! I heard you like to study! Isn't that nice?" in that singsongy voice people use toward children, the village idiot, and people who are about to lose their shit. I wasn't the first two, but I was coming up on the third.

We had churchschool once a week, Sunday nights, I believe, in the basement of the church. My parents insisted I attend, at least until I graduated high school. I still didn't enjoy going, but I was a fairly law-abiding kid. I went. I sat there, quietly, I didn't answer many questions, and when the session was up, I went home, not having learned much other than there were very few things in the world less inspiring than being forced to study religion.

One night, we had a guest speaker. In his infinite wisdom, Voldemort had invited an employee from the local Planned Parenthood to show us a video about safe sex and talk to us. I'm still, all these years later, not sure what was going through his head. Again, I'm not sure what you know about the Catholic faith, but premarital sex is a no-no. Not a little no-no, either. A big fat one. So safe sex isn't something you want talked about with your unmarried, high-school churchschool class. Because "no sex" really would have to be the topic. Did he think Planned Parenthood was going to talk about no sex? Because that's not really what Planned Parenthood does.

The video was a basic safe-sex primer. It was brief. It's not like it showed naughty bits, or anything. Then she talked to us, briefly. Voldemort was off in the corner somewhere. I remember the Planned Parenthood worker. She was young. Much younger than I am now. I'm thinking early twenties, maybe. You could tell she didn't have a lot of experience giving these talks. She finished the talk with something along the lines of "And, so if any of you do decide to have sex, please practice safe sex. Thank you!"

Voldemort ERUPTED from his corner. He was a Mount Vesuvius of righteous anger. His face was so red I thought he was having a stroke.

"These are Catholic children," he spat at her. No, really, he spat. Like, spit FLEW from his lips and splattered all over the Planned Parenthood lady. "They don't have sex." Sex was said like the Church Lady used to say it on Saturday Night Live. Like it was sin wrapped in hookers and porno and then rolled in edible panties. "Get out. Now." He then started cleaning up her things for her and shoving them at her.

Planned Parenthood lady was in tears. She was probably thinking what I'm thinking now - what exactly was he expecting to happen? Did he think Planned Parenthood was known for its abstinence talks? Or talks about becoming a nun? Planned Parenthood helps you with a lot of things, and I suppose would talk to you about abstinence, if you asked them to. But obviously he hadn't, otherwise, wouldn't that have been what she talked about?

I don't like bullies. Not at all. I think I've made it pretty clear, to anyone that's been reading this for any length of time, or anyone who knows me at all, that I was bullied for years. Bullies immediately put me on the defensive. When I was younger, they made me want to run and hide. As I got older (and I was right on the edge of younger and older, then) I want to protect the person that's being bullied. Even if it isn't my fight, or my business, or I don't like the person being bullied all that much. It doesn't matter. I want to protect that person. Because I know what being bullied can do to someone. I live with what being bullied can do to someone every single day of my life; odds are good I will for the rest of my life. Show me a bully, and you will see me go into full-on momma-bear protective mode.

I stood up. "I'm very glad she came. I'm not currently sexually active, but the information was helpful for when I will be. Thank you!" I said. The other kids in the class just gaped at me. The Planned Parenthood lady, on her way out, her things hastily gathered to her chest, gave me a teary, white-faced smile.

Voldemort came over to me, puffing like a bull in heat. "Excuse me?"

I just stared at him. He got very close. Right in my personal space. Which I was not comfortable with then and I am not comfortable with now. But I did not move.
One of the other girls in the class stood up. "I actually am sexually active, and I use Planned Parenthood, so I'm glad they're around. They're a good resource."

Voldemort's head snapped around to her.

Another girl stood. "I'm not sexually active, but my boyfriend and I are planning on becoming so, so I'm glad she was here. I'll call you for more information, ok?" she said to the Planned Parenthood lady, who had a very small smile on her face at this point. Voldemort turned to her and she beat a hasty retreat up the stairs.

I felt like Amy Madigan at the PTA meeting in Field of Dreams.

"All of you, sit down," he hissed. "I won't stand for outbursts in my class. If you can't control yourselves, you can leave."

The other two girls sat. One had a mother who volunteered at the church, so I suppose she didn't want to make waves. The other didn't care much; I don't think it mattered to her either way. Me? Stubborn. And I really, really hate bullies. Did I mention that? It bears repeating.

"You," he said. The patronizing voice was gone. Voldemort was speaking parseltongue now. All hissing gliding vowel tones. This was the real Voldemort, I thought. Interesting it took this for him to show his face. "Get out. You're not welcome here. This is your last churchschool class. And we'll be calling your parents."

I thought about it, for a minute. On one hand, someone was telling me to go, and I don't like being told what to do. Part of me wanted to plop right back down and start singing "I Will Not Be Moved." But on the other hand - I hated churchschool. I had just been kicked out of the place I hated going almost most of all. It was like I had pulled a long con that had finally paid off. How stupid would it be to go back into the lion's den when you'd finally been freed?

Also, Voldemort was scaring me a little. Like, "I'm just about to take off my man-mask and show the monster-face that has been lurking just beneath the whole time" scary.

I walked out of there with my head held high. I waved at Planned Parenthood lady in the parking lot as I drove off. I felt like I had an early release from prison.

My parents were not pleased about this. Voldemort hadn't even called them himself. He'd immediately called one of his church minion ladies - there were a bunch of them, who hung on his every word like he was a vending machine spitting out free little bags of M&Ms - call them, so that when I got home, they already had the news. My mother told me she'd talk to him, smooth things over, get me back in. Oh, also he lied, and told them I had stood in front of the entire class and said I was having sex. Well, unless I was sneaking men into my room after midnight, via ladder, into my second-floor window, men who were somehow attracted to the fact that I was so shy as to seem mute, burdened with a crippling case of adolescent acne, and had a fancy 80's era perm - my parents knew that wasn't true. I wasn't dating. I never went out. I stayed home and read and wrote and studied and sometimes I had a play. Whoo, backfire, Voldemort. My complete and total lack of potential suitors defeats your lies!

I'd gone to churchschool for twelve years at this point. I went to mass whenever required; I behaved myself (well, except for my out-of-control mouth, of course); I made all As; I was a pretty decent kid, altogether.

I refused to go back to churchschool. My parents tried to convince me, via bribery, vague threats, punishments, cries of "duty." I refused. I would not be moved.

I never trusted Voldemort again. I won't go into detail - it will make it much too easy for people to identify him - but, years later, things came out (no, not those type of things; as far as I know, he didn't become a stereotype) where I was proven right. He was not a good person. He did some really, really awful things. Not the kind of things that get you kicked out as a priest, but the kind of things where I would most certainly not want to be in his shoes come judgment day. I tried not to say "I told you so" too loudly when this happened. But I say everything loudly, once I found my voice, finally, so it probably came out as a roar.

I never got suspended from school, but I got officially kicked out of churchschool. Yep. Total and complete badass.

You Know I Like Snack Pack, Why Can't You Just Give Me a Snack Pack?

I am an extremely stubborn person. I've mentioned this before. I tend to make snap judgments, which are usually  correct (in my humble estimation), and it takes a lot to change my mind. I'm not completely rigid - if I'm proven wrong, I admit, loudly and vociferously (as, let's face it, I do most things in my life - "quiet" is not a word that will ever be used to describe me, unless we were somehow switched into bizarro world without my knowledge) but I do tend to stick to something, once my mind has been made up.

It's not the most attractive trait. I realize that. It's made me miss events because I refuse to be in the same room as someone who I believe has slighted me; it's made me miss out on years of friendship with otherwise lovely people because I made a judgment about them and refused to change it (or accept their apology) until the evidence of their awesomeness slapped me upside the head; it's made me pout for hours (or longer) over things that were, let's face it, probably in my own head. However, it also makes me an awesome friend. I am loyal to a fault, once I accept you. The same mental issues that make me stubbornly refuse to forgive also make me stubbornly back my friends, no matter the situation. I am their staunchest supporter, even when the thing they're doing might not be the smartest idea.

I also can't keep quiet. As I'm sure anyone reading this on a regular basis has noted, I suffer from extreme loquaciousness. This isn't just in writing, folks. I talk. A lot. And I'm really, really loud. I don't have an inside voice. I remember getting in time out as far back as kindergarten for talking too much. I have all of these excellent thoughts! And they are in my head! And they want to come out and play with your thoughts! Right now! And loudly! (This is a family trait. At a family reunion, the decibel level is probably high enough that you'd want to bring your earplugs. We are not a quiet folk. Our family crest would be a man shouting and a bunch of other people covering their ears.) So when I have an opinion about something, even when I know it's an unpopular one, I usually voice it. Loudly. This has not always made me the most popular girl at the party. Especially since I have the rare talent of always talking about someone just as they enter a room. Oh! Hi! Awkward!

As I've aged, I've learned how better to deal with this. I can stay quieter, if I know I absolutely need to (I don't like to, though. I am a volcano! Of words and thoughts! Erupting!) I try very hard to weigh first impressions with the actual cold, hard facts about someone. I try to be a little more flexible, because I know, as an adult, you have to be. There's not a lot of room in the world for people who run on nothing but first impressions and stick out their jaw and refuse to budge, no matter what. There's a word for that, you know. It's jackass.

When I was younger, though, I wasn't as skilled at it. At all, actually. To an embarrassing extent.

My parents raised me Catholic, so I attended churchschool. Once a year, we had an all-day churchschool event, where we'd go to the community center and do religion-based activities. Our priest - one of the absolute best people I've ever met in my life, and I don't really like anybody (sorry, anybody) - ran these days. He was young and full of ideals and believed in letting each of his students shine - which is where he and I butted heads a bit.

Before I begin, I just want to be very clear. I no longer attend church, but have nothing against the Catholic church, Catholicism, members of the clergy, the Catholic faith, or Christians as a whole. It wasn't for me. I have my reasons; they aren't anyone else's reasons, and I do not hold them against the church. This is not meant, and should not be taken, as an indictment of Catholicism, and if you take it as such, you are taking it incorrectly and kind of being a dick (or dick-ette; I don't mean to be sexist.) It is an event that happened in churchschool; it could just as easily have happened in a secular environment. I don't need hate mail because I'm blasting the church, because I am not.

I hated churchschool. Somehow, all of the popular kids from my school - the ones who were bound and determined to make my life a living hell each and every weekday - were also members of my church. So not only did I have to spend the day with them, I had to spend the day with them away from my small support system of like-minded individuals, who were my protective smokescreen at school, as they did not attend my church. It was like being thrown to the wolves every time I had to attend. And the priest, who was the sweetest, kindest man alive, and only saw the good in people, just did not get this. He saw me retreating into myself and this made him even more intent on making me show how intelligent and funny he thought I was. He'd have me talk in front of them, lead groups, anything to bring me into the spotlight. I wanted nothing less than this.

One year, the entire day had been going badly. We had to do a trust fall, where the popular kids refused to touch me, so I would have fallen if I hadn't gotten wise and caught myself at the last minute (hmm, wonder why I don't want to do those at work retreats nowadays? Can't imagine. Also? These are never a good idea, people who plan work retreats. Stop doing them!); there were a lot of muffled "geek!" and "nerd!" and what-have-you whenever I walked by; just the usual harassment, only in a much smaller space, with no escape route. Then, lunch.

We all sat and one of the priest's assistants handed out folded pieces of paper. "We're going to be playing a game with lunch," the priest explained. His assistants started unpacking sub fixings - rolls, veggies, meat, cheese, condiments, chips, soda. It was later than my normal lunch and I was hungry and ready to get on with things; the quicker we got this over with, the quicker we could move on to the next fun activity (note: the next activity would not be fun) and the quicker I could get the hell home and go back to the relative obscurity of school the next day.

"On your paper is a color. You've each been randomly assigned a color: white, red, yellow, green and black. Please look at your paper now." We did. I had black. Fine. I was feeling gothy anyway. (This was pre-goth, but in retrospect, if it had been in goth years, I would most definitely have been one.) "The colors represent the classes of people in the world. When I call your color, come up and get your envelopes."

So it went like this: the people with the white papers got envelopes with "free passes" inside. Everyone else got toy money. The toy money diminished as you went down the line, color-wise. You had to "purchase" your lunch with the toy money. The white group could go first (they represented the privileged elite) and they could eat whatever they wanted. The red group went next - they had enough money to buy almost anything they wanted without having to sacrifice much. So on down the line, with each group having less and less play money, until you got to the black group - and we had about $10 total toy dollars to buy our lunch with. This was to teach us a lesson about injustice in life, the have and have-nots, race relations, what have you. It wasn't a bad lesson, in theory.

At that point, there wasn't much food left. Every other group had already eaten. And the prices were crazy. We put our heads together (well, they did - I wasn't really part of the decision-making process), and decided that, with the $10, we could buy some lettuce, half a roll, and a cup of soda for the five of us.

OK, I mentioned above I am stubborn, right? I also hate injustice. Hate it. And I hate games, and I hate surprises, and I hate working as a team, and I hate being promised something and not getting it, and I hated that the goddamn popular kids, who had been tormenting me all day, were eating their frigging subs and laughing and having a gay old time, and I was starving and I was pissed. Righteously, royally pissed.

"Nope," I said.

I left the food line and sat at an empty table, shaking with anger (and hunger, a little) at this stupid game. One of the team members came over (one of those nicey-nice "let's all be friends, even with the unfortunates! Especially them! They are most deserving of our pity! That's how we get to heaven!" people - save me from them, please) and asked if I was going to share in their delicious lunch.

"Your delicious lunch is lettuce, half a roll, and a cup of soda. For five people. No. You can have my share," I said. I sat there, furious. We weren't even allowed to bring books to read; we were supposed to socialize. I don't socialize. I don't do it now; I didn't then. If I'd been old enough, I would have walked out and driven off.

The priest came over. "Amy, you're not sitting with your group! They've got some lettuce, and bread, and soda, there's plenty!" he said. Now listen, I loved this man. Being rude to him was painful. I was (and honestly? Kind of still am) sure he had a direct line to God himself. But I'd had it.

"I don't beg," I said. "I have food at home. My parents provide me with plenty to eat. I will eat when I get home. If you weren't going to provide people with lunch, that should have been made clear."

He stopped and looked at me, very seriously. "Amy, everyone's participating in this."

"No," I said. "I won't."

The assistants, now that everyone was eating, suddenly brought out two more trays of food. The priest stood. "Good job on the lesson, everyone! Let's all take more food - plenty for everyone - and talk about what we learned!" He looked at me, smiling, bright eyed, very eager to please. He really was just a good person. I don't know, have you ever met someone like this? Who is just good? Someone who hasn't got a bad bone in their entire body? It's almost supernatural, in a way. He radiated goodness. I'm pretty sure, if he had started a cult, half of the town would have followed him. I still love him with every fiber of my being. But he hadn't thought this through, not in my opinion, because IT WASN'T FAIR. "Amy? Come on. There's plenty."

Stubborn. I am one stubborn woman; I was even worse as a girl.

"No, thank you. I don't want your food," I said.

I refused to get up. I refused to participate. I refused to join in the discussion. I sat there, stewing in my righteous anger, and for the rest of the day, would not move. I was not having any part of this. Someone brought me a plate of secondary pity food; it sat there, untouched. The kids sat around another table and talked about teamwork and what a great lesson and how unfair injustice was and how much they'd learned and I was, for the moment, forgotten - the only positive thing to happen that day. I knew this would be trouble. I knew he would report my insubordination to my parents. I knew they would be furious; I'd made it clear, going into the day, that I didn't want to come, and they'd forced me to, and now I was embarrassing them by not behaving. But I'd made my decision. I was not having it. None of it. I had reached my overflow point and would not be taking on any more of this bullshit, not today.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. I was being kind of a twat. I was. I totally was. I can see that. Thing is, how my stubbornness works, is that I cannot physically make myself move. Even if I'd wanted to, I was sitting there until we were released. I was furious to the point of tears. I wasn't going to cry in front of the kids that had been bullying me for years and all day besides, and I wasn't able to join in, even if I wanted to, because that would be giving up. And I don't give up. It's to my detriment, as I've said, sometimes, but I dig in my heels like an ass and I won't move.

I went home that night and although I wasn't going to tell my parents what had happened, the good girl in me spilled it all. I don't remember their reaction, so it couldn't have been all that bad. I'm sure they weren't pleased, but they knew me well enough not to be all that surprised, I think. This wasn't the first time I'd done something like this. (It wouldn't be the last, either. A few years later, I got myself permanently banned from churchschool. Different priest, completely different scenario, but I was kicked out and told I was not welcome to come back. I know. I'm the badass who was KICKED OUT OF CHURCHSCHOOL. I'll tell you about it sometime.)

The following Sunday in church, the priest gave his sermon. He talked about this and that, then started talking about the all-day class he'd held that week. He explained the lesson he'd done with the food. "Oh, crap," I thought. My mother started looking at me sternly.

"One student refused to participate. At first, I was angry with her. I had planned the lesson very thoroughly, and her refusal was hurtful and personal to me. Until I went home and thought about it and realized it was that student who taught me a lesson. She was participating - and following in the footsteps of some of our most famous protesters. She was practicing nonviolent resistance. She was refusing to participate. By refusing to participate, her share of food went to everyone else in her group. She was following in the footsteps of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. Her refusal to participate in the injustice going on around her was just as valid a reaction to it as the reaction of the students who joined together to pool their money so everyone could eat. I'm very proud of her today."

He didn't say my name - thank you for that, Father - but I just sat there, face flaming, sure everyone around me knew there really was only one churchschool age student known for her outrageous, and sometimes downright rude, behavior.

So I not only had a temper tantrum, but the priest, the very, very nice priest, had thought it over and turned it into me doing him a favor. I felt about three inches high.

I spoke to my mother about this event today and told her I was blogging about it. She just laughed. "Oh, no," she said. "I remember that. You were so angry."

And stubborn. Stubborn beyond all that was rational. If you promise me a sandwich, dammit - there had better be a sandwich. I'm fairly sure this is how most revolutions were begun, right? So really, I was ahead of my time. (Or just a stubborn, cranky girl who loved subs. Either way.)

(On a sad note, and not to be the buzzkill in the room or anything, but this lovely priest passed away recently, at a fairly young age. My mom said she thought he'd enjoy reading this. I'd like to think that, wherever he is - and my beliefs on an afterlife really aren't appropriate here, or anywhere but in my own heart, thank you - he's read it. And he knows how much I admired him, the entire time I knew him. There are very few true heroes in the world. Sometimes, you hear about one; once in a great while, you're lucky enough to meet one, and have that person in your life for a time. I was one of the lucky ones. Thank you, Father.)