Nothing you could
say could tear me away from my guy,
Nothing you could do 'cause I'm stuck like glue to my guy.
I'm sticking to my
guy like a stamp to a letter,
Like (rot to a banana) we stick together,
I'm tellin' you from the start I can't be
torn apart from my guy.
_______________________________________________________
"Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy....."
I love having O! I get to blame O for EVERYTHING! He's responsible for my short
temper. My fat body. He's responsible for my gray hair. Any time I cough, I think "ah-oh. impaired
immune system. O's at it again."
Argue
with my husband? My teenaged children? O's fault.
Can't sleep? Drink a wee bit too much wine? O. Of course O.
_______________________________________________________
"Nothing you could do 'cause I'm stuck like glue to my guy...."
O cackles. Screams. Drums his impatience and menace inside of me. Really.
He leers and gloats. "Think you got away from me, do you honey? Really?"
He spits. Sweats, too.
He works out. Rarely sleeps.
____________________________________________
"I'm sticking to my guy like a stamp to a letter...."
O's in good "Kim shape." He dresses in Richard Simmon's 1980s preferred workout atire: short
shorts and tank top.
"Why," I ask myself, "did
I allow him to bring all of those free weights?" He's got them set up in my backside. There's a lot of space there.
My "muscle bound man" is in
better "Kim" shape than I am. But I at least get to blame him for my belly, bunions and jiggly backside. I think
my belly's his favorite place. "I'm hungry" he whines as he reclines there in his tight shorts and tank top.
"Feed me."
______________________________________________________
No "handsome face" can ever take the place of my guy...."
O likes to scoot on up to my mind too. He gets a "good workout"
inside of me and so--because he's well fed--he ascends with ease. Just swings from blood vessel to vein. Does
lung lunges, as he mounts a lung. "One! And two three, four!" The exertion makes him breathless. I too feel a shortness
of breath as he stomps my breathing apparatus.
O
lugs himself up through my throat and with one hand sometimes hangs for just a moment from my uvula and taunts me. Thumbing
his nose at me, he wiggles his fingers, with the other hand. "Na-na-na-na-boo-boo.... Just you try and spit
me out! Ha!"
"Ewww it's nasty in here!"
as he tip toes through the wax of my eustachian tube. "CLEAN UP THIS F@#KING MESS!"
If you've followed A Piece Full World
the last seven years, you know that I tried to keep O out. I thought then that putting my words and experience outside
of me would keep him out too. And so I wrote. And I wrote. And wrote, wrote, wrote.
"Like birds of a feather, we stick together..."
I remember then my fingers jabbing the key pad as another one of his bullied
educators contacted me. And then others from all over the nation. Educators needing. Needing help, solace
and guidance.
"Like birds of a feather, they stick together...."
My guy is not unique. My guy is
just another sociopathic principal who coercively controls others. A mean guy is my guy. A nasty, self serving, dangerous,
dull guy--one of so many.
But this guy, you best be believin'
I won't be deceivin' is My Guy.
Kim--You
are DOING SOMETHING!!!! Not allowed, dear heart. Stare at their backs! Standardized monitor. Standardized
progress check. Yes. Yes.
Now,
that's a good girl.
_____________________________________________
Day 7. Overflow from a large advanced class. Seventh
grade. Ten kids. All seems to be going well as far as logging in.
One set
of earphones is not working. Another computer has no sound. Little manageable things.
It
is disheartening watching my wonderful school cater to this test. And we haven't even started math. The whole
odessy will start again for that. Then the EOCs.
In addition, the interims and
the like--iReady and other online support--the entire school year is...this online stuff.
Kids,
these 12 and 13 year old kids may have distant memories of "what it was like before testing..." They may remember
hands in dirt and skinned knees; might recall the FEEL of a group of children with their teacher; the "CALL ON ME!"
excitement of knowing an answer. "ME! ME! ME!"; the richness of discourse and conversation; the depth of a
teacher's lecture; they might remember looking up words in a hefty book called a dictionary...
They
might remember. They might recall.
Ah, some are finishing now. Fidgeting,
looking at me expectantly. They know they must now sit for another 40 minutes. They know those minutes will feel
like hours. They have done this many times before.
Fidget! Whisper. Shh!!!
Fidget!
Whisper. Shh!!!
Ah, now the "silent stretch break..." Like little obedient
soldiers....
What would happen if...they just didn't come? Oh we would
"Take Action!" You can bet! We would "hold them and their parents accountable" for unexcused
absences. Issue no grades. WE WOULD DO SOMETHING! We'll SUBTRACT THAT 30%, BY GOD!
Ah,
now heads into folded arms. Nap time! Ha! Nap time for seventh graders! I'd love this analysis: For every
minute students are active (as in clicking buttons, for that's about all they get to do) how many minutes do they do absolutely
nothing?!
Kim--You are DOING SOMETHING!!!! Not allowed, dear heart.
Stare at their backs! Standardized monitor. Standardized progress check. Yes. Yes.
Now, that's a good girl.
