Blogatron

My Client Pleads 'Better than Thou.'

A serious case of the Monday Blobbies (symptoms: paranoia, despair, the sense that one is an octagonal peg in a round hole [I'm too complex for you and your round holes!], unjustified self-righteousness, tummy-ache) can only be cured by chewing on the bitter marrow of injustices long past. It makes the present seem more bearable, until it is so. For therapeutic purposes, I present a brief, incomplete list of false accusations made against me through the years:

Daycare, year unknown: Left alone for too long with a few other kids, a game of barber went horribly awry when a certain tattletale realized that her ringlets could not be reattached. Frenzy ensued, and when my mom came to pick me up she was told in no uncertain terms that, as the new kid, I had been marked as the instigator and would not be welcomed back. Well. As I recall, Miss Banana Curl 1980 wasn't crying when she showed us where the scissors were.

Springtime, 1983 or 1984 (1st or 2nd grade): After receiving a ride to school with a friend, I embarked on my customary struggle with a strange car door. Noticing my failure to spring readily from the vessel, friend's father made haste to open the door from the outside, remarking "Well, aren't you the little lady." Although at the age of six or seven, my grasp of gender politics was shaky, it was impossible to ignore the sneering insult in his tone. Implicit: 1) to be a lady is to be helpless, needy and demanding; 2) I was further proof that such qualities are innate in the female. Equally impossible was the task of defending myself for the crime of little-ladyhood.

1986 or 1987 (5th grade): A ten-year-old cannot respond to the query "Do you want to tell me who helped you with this report on the Grand Canyon?" without seeming like a liar and an idiot. The revelation that my mom sure as hell didn't help me with it, as I wouldn't have dared tell her that it was due today and I was just starting it the night before, would not have gone over well. My skill in regurgitating encyclopedia text had already brought out Mrs. Welch's most wolfish smile; that it was also a rush job would only have compounded the sin of overcompetence.

1988 (6th grade): Unprovoked, Schlub 1 pointed at me and remarked to Schlub 2: "She looks like she's tight." I am now sure they were just parroting concepts gleaned from older brothers or illicit R-rated movies, but at the time I was convinced that some secret was apparent to all the world but me. The snickering made it clear that whatever it was, it was Very Bad. This case marks one of the first instances of the icy glare that later made me infamous and generated the new accusation, "Scary!"

1992 (sophomore year of high school): While running as part of my sports requirement, I felt an unpleasant "ping!" in the area of my left heel. Having always ascribed to the "No Pain, The End" philosophy of exercise, I hied myself to the sports doctor people* to get excused from running until the ping went away. After examining me and listening to my sincere description of where the pain was, what made it worse, and how much it hurt ("Not too much, as long as I'm not running"), the sports doctor person announced that I had pulled my Achilles tendon "...but I'm sure you already knew that." The implication of premeditated faking was clear.

The reason incidents like these still rankle is that the Hilatron reflected back to me is someone I don't accept or recognize: an upstart, a cheat, a useless girl, a barely comprehended sex object, a layabout. The ugly vision of others was forced upon me, jarring the sense of self I was busy creating, and I resent the intrusion.

It's time to balance the scales. Just for today, I proclaim that no one is qualified to pass judgment on me. I cling triumphantly to my delusions of grandeur. I reserve the right to remake myself, ideal in my own mind. I declare crimes real and fabricated to be stricken from the record. To all who have dared to speak out against me, I cry: Beware! Before you stands PerfectTron, and you shall bow before my flawlessness! Resist and face the terror of the look dubbed "Demon Stare" by Mrs. Hathaway's 7th grade homeroom!

*Snooty prep school facilities alert.

Posted by hilatron at April 8, 2003 12:19 PM