to get involved. And when it came to our own business, well, let's say that she only wanted to hear about the good stuff. You’ll know how this applies in just a second.
The moral of the story is: I never really did manage to tell my mom what was happening, at least not in any kind of detail.
So it all just...kept happening.
Until the day I finally broke down and confessed everything to my first grade teacher, Miss McKibbon. Or, ok maybe I didn't confess everything. In fact, I barely told her anything. All I said was that my babysitter touched me in places she shouldn't have.
But it was enough.
See, back then everything wasn't all mandated confidentiality and political correctness the way it is now. Teachers didn't meddle so much in their students lives, or try to give parents any advice other than "Tell Bobby he needs to do better in math otherwise I'll have to fail him." Which, in my neighborhood, usually meant the parent in question would wait until he or she got home before beating the living shit out of Bobby for making them take part in his education. If Bobby was smart, he'd either shape up academically or conveniently 'forget' to notify his parents about the next parent-teacher powwow. If not, the cycle would be repeated every year, until Bobby either dropped out or turned 18 and got the hell out of Dodge.
But Miss McKibbon, god love her, she was pretty fucking progressive.
Instead of doing the professional and detached thing, she marched right over to our house and told my mom what was happening to her precious little daughter, right under her own nose.
That was when Mom and Miss McKibbon hit a little snag. Because telling someone how to raise their kids, while standing on their trailer park turf?
Bingo . Clear violation of Rule # 1.
Even if it turns out that you're in the right, even if the other person is wrong or blind or just plain stupid, you should've minded your own god damn business.
They say bad news travels fast? Well, scandalous news travels even faster, and at BE, it sure as shit didn't have far to go. Miss McKibbon had knocked on our door at 6:47 PM. By 7:15 PM, Mom had showed her to the door, using her 'outside' voice. By 7:20 PM, our phone was ringing off the hook from concerned neighbors, wanting to know why their trailer park Jackie O's perfect little angel had done to earn a home visit from a teacher.
By 8:00 PM, everyone knew the truth. Including the fact that I'd accused Gretchen Cader of basically being a child molester. (And yes, I've often wondered where those nosy bitches were when I really needed them. Probably tying up the phone lines ordering limited edition American Girl dolls off of QVC.)
After the phone stopped ringing—or in other words, after my mom jerked the cord out of the wall—she took a sleeping pill and sent herself to bed.
Taking my cue from mom, I decided the whole Gretchen thing wasn't as bad as Miss McKibbon seemed to think it was. So the next morning, I woke up and fixed myself a bowl of cereal, and took myself off to school. As per usual.
This brings me to Trailer Park Rule #2: snitches get stitches. I know, right? Again with the delightful prison analogy. I amuse the shit out of myself, sometimes.
Long story short, Gretchen's dad had heard about the things I said, and he’d beaten the living hell out of her the night before. So of course, she passed the message on to me.
Afterwards, I picked myself up, wiped the blood off my nose and walked to school, as usual.
I'll bet you're now wondering what the fuck a 5-year-old kid was doing walking to school, aren't you? Seriously? Again, you're focusing on all the wrong details, genius.
When I got to school, Miss McKibbon took one look at me and called the cops. Child services came and took me into custody. They put me in a room with some hard-ass cop with a full on uniform and a gigantic mustache. He scared the shit out of me at the time, but in retrospect he was probably a nice guy. He just had the world's
The moral of the story is: I never really did manage to tell my mom what was happening, at least not in any kind of detail.
So it all just...kept happening.
Until the day I finally broke down and confessed everything to my first grade teacher, Miss McKibbon. Or, ok maybe I didn't confess everything. In fact, I barely told her anything. All I said was that my babysitter touched me in places she shouldn't have.
But it was enough.
See, back then everything wasn't all mandated confidentiality and political correctness the way it is now. Teachers didn't meddle so much in their students lives, or try to give parents any advice other than "Tell Bobby he needs to do better in math otherwise I'll have to fail him." Which, in my neighborhood, usually meant the parent in question would wait until he or she got home before beating the living shit out of Bobby for making them take part in his education. If Bobby was smart, he'd either shape up academically or conveniently 'forget' to notify his parents about the next parent-teacher powwow. If not, the cycle would be repeated every year, until Bobby either dropped out or turned 18 and got the hell out of Dodge.
But Miss McKibbon, god love her, she was pretty fucking progressive.
Instead of doing the professional and detached thing, she marched right over to our house and told my mom what was happening to her precious little daughter, right under her own nose.
That was when Mom and Miss McKibbon hit a little snag. Because telling someone how to raise their kids, while standing on their trailer park turf?
Bingo . Clear violation of Rule # 1.
Even if it turns out that you're in the right, even if the other person is wrong or blind or just plain stupid, you should've minded your own god damn business.
They say bad news travels fast? Well, scandalous news travels even faster, and at BE, it sure as shit didn't have far to go. Miss McKibbon had knocked on our door at 6:47 PM. By 7:15 PM, Mom had showed her to the door, using her 'outside' voice. By 7:20 PM, our phone was ringing off the hook from concerned neighbors, wanting to know why their trailer park Jackie O's perfect little angel had done to earn a home visit from a teacher.
By 8:00 PM, everyone knew the truth. Including the fact that I'd accused Gretchen Cader of basically being a child molester. (And yes, I've often wondered where those nosy bitches were when I really needed them. Probably tying up the phone lines ordering limited edition American Girl dolls off of QVC.)
After the phone stopped ringing—or in other words, after my mom jerked the cord out of the wall—she took a sleeping pill and sent herself to bed.
Taking my cue from mom, I decided the whole Gretchen thing wasn't as bad as Miss McKibbon seemed to think it was. So the next morning, I woke up and fixed myself a bowl of cereal, and took myself off to school. As per usual.
This brings me to Trailer Park Rule #2: snitches get stitches. I know, right? Again with the delightful prison analogy. I amuse the shit out of myself, sometimes.
Long story short, Gretchen's dad had heard about the things I said, and he’d beaten the living hell out of her the night before. So of course, she passed the message on to me.
Afterwards, I picked myself up, wiped the blood off my nose and walked to school, as usual.
I'll bet you're now wondering what the fuck a 5-year-old kid was doing walking to school, aren't you? Seriously? Again, you're focusing on all the wrong details, genius.
When I got to school, Miss McKibbon took one look at me and called the cops. Child services came and took me into custody. They put me in a room with some hard-ass cop with a full on uniform and a gigantic mustache. He scared the shit out of me at the time, but in retrospect he was probably a nice guy. He just had the world's
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