Thirty Years Ago I Was Already an Asshole

It was the morning of first day of third grade at Everett McKinley Dirksen Elementary in Chicago, IL. The uneasy quietness of the first day hung in the air. As students arrived into the classroom one by one, I'd see some that I recognized from before, some new. The teacher had not arrived. She was apparently new to the Chicago Public Schools and we did not know what to expect.

After we all had hung our jackets and picked a desk, she emerged through the door. She was probably 50, definitely frumpy, and looked like a typical elementary school teacher of the 1970's. Although the class contained confirmed misfits and evildoers, we all sat quietly and waited for class to start. The students sat frozen, waiting to determine which one of us would be the first to pierce the veil of acceptable behavior. Time would prove that to be me.

She began to write her name on the board in slow cursive rivaling that of any nun. Her hand moved up and down with the chalk to spell:

M - R - S. - C - U - T - T - O - N - E

She did not finish the rounded flourish on the "E" before my hand shot into the air. She looked at me and acknowledged my inquiry...

"Mrs. Cut One, may I please use the restroom?", I asked.

The room exploded with laughter and pants wetting. I had broken the seal of her authority, an undermining that would earn me priceless comedic stigmata and a week of detention.

That moment marked the beginning of a year of academic anarchy. The general sense of respect that usually eroded away by April was down the toilet in one shot. From that point on students would still refer to her as Mrs. Cut One and sometimes would even call her "Mrs. (hands over mouth with fingers in the ears and blowing farty sounds out of palms)".

Somehow it never sounded as perfect as the first time.