I was a 6th grader in 1994. Not a bad year, really. Boyz II Men were huge and everybody who was anybody had a Tamagotchi. I even kissed a boy for the first time that year. Eww, not with my mouth open. Blehk. It was also the year I learned the difference between the Bloods and the Crips and learned what it means to get bitch slapped, because an education in Atlanta’s public school system is one of many subjects.

She was even smaller than me, my bitch-slapper, if you can believe that, and was no stranger to the principal’s office. She was loud and feisty, and scrappy drama was her weapon of choice. Of course, I thought we were friendly right up to the moment when she drew back her skinny little arm and popped me across the cheek.

I probably deserved it. In fact, I’m sure I did. But, to this day, I can’t remember what I said to provoke her. I think I remember that it had something do with boys… and girls… and that I was mocking her. Problem is, that kind of talk really isn’t meant for the girl’s bathroom, but that’s always where the shit goes down when you’re in school. I had a friend with me, a big friend. One of the tall, scary kids, but she was as useless as she was tall, and she stood there afterward with her mouth open like a humongous trout.

I guess I didn’t plan to do anything about it. I was shocked; oh, sure. But I also felt as though I’d just earned my stripes. Hell, I didn’t even cry! I didn’t bat an eye! It was like I could take a bite from a rattlesnake and keep on. Like I was a serious bitch in training. Like I was Courtney Love. And I probably was. Until my big friend, who it turns out was not so useless at deciding ethical issues, brainwashed me with some business about right and wrong and convinced me that I should tell our teacher. I mean, really. Like that ever helps.

But I did tell. Friend in tow, I marched right up to my Language Arts teacher after class and told her what happened. [Looking back, I am not surprised I became a writer, a storyteller, because I can picture myself retelling the “fight.” There were hand motions, and lots of ‘em, and I could swear I even showed her my cheek and quivered my upper lip for effect.]

At home, I re-told the story to my mother. This was a mistake.

My attacker’s punishment was two weeks suspension from school. Damn. Apparently girl fights in the bathroom are serious business. My repercussion for involvement in such activities (I DID NOT see that coming!) was two conduct cuts. That’s right, kids: The fair comes to town once a year and there are rides and candy.

What is a conduct cut? Glad you asked.

A conduct cut is akin to a zit on the face of your class record. Not so much of a big deal until you’ve got a lot of them. Then you just look bad. You can get them for any number of offenses: talking out of turn, not paying attention in class, late homework, chewing gum. The result of more than two conduct cuts in one class is expulsion from the end-of-the-year 6th grade ice cream party. 

Naturally, I was the queen of conduct cuts. A multiple offender, but they never had any real consequence. Until now. I already had one conduct cut in Language Arts, so now there were THREE. A letter went home explaining that I would be missing the sacred ice cream party. We, “the others,” would be watching a movie down the hall, and did I have permission to watch it - me, and all of the kids who had more than two conduct cuts or had missed too many days of school. No words can describe the depth of my sadness… my disappointment… my fear. My mind raced.

“I AM GOING TO BE IN A ROOM WITH ALL OF THE BAD KIDS.” Surely I would be killed. “I AM NOT A BAD KID! I WAS JUST IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME. Me and this mouth… oh, THIS MOUTH!” Little did I know that it was just the beginning of my mouth-related issues.

To make matters worse, my attacker had perfect attendance that year… minus her two weeks of suspension. SOMEHOW, this escaped the attention of the middle school attendance gods. Uncalled for. UNCALLED FOR. My father, god bless him, was outraged. OUTRAGED. So, being the man that he was, he dropped me off at school the next morning and demanded a meeting with our vice principal, the evil and rotund, Ms. Parrott.

I don’t know what happened during that meeting… I don’t know what was said… I don’t know for certain if my father yelled (he totally yelled)… I don’t know if he threatened a law suit (he totally threatened a law suit)… or if he used inappropriate language to form his argument (he totally did)… but that damn Parrott wouldn’t budge. She was as tightly affixed to standing her ground as I imagined a real parrot would be upon a pirate’s shoulder. Damn her.

But my father, a force to be reckoned with, went at the Parrott blow for blow, as I imagine it. In the end, she was defeated, and my disappointment didn’t last for long. After all, I was the victim.

A few days later, I attended the celestial celebration of dairy goodness and, as I squeezed chocolate syrup over my crisp vanilla bean ice cream, feeling high and mighty like all winners do, I imagined what it might be like to stand in the troubled shoes of my bitch-slapper… and if she had someone to stand up for her the way my father stood up for me. I wondered if she had someone who would face the Parrot for her. I doubted that she did, and wondered what that would feel like.

I sat down next to my tall friend and slurped my ice cream. I let my mind wander and then rewound it to our moment in the bathroom. I hit play and let it all unfold, this time with roles reversed. And as my ice cream began to melt, I realized that it meant much more to survive disappointment than a bathroom beating.

Sincerely,

Sally B.