When I was in third grade I got Weird with writing. It makes sense in hindsight. Oppressed people find their own ways of carving out space for themselves.
The first bit I did landed me in trouble more immediately. I was given, god knows by who, one of those enormous giant pencils. I loved it. My tiny nine year old body was consumed with love of this pencil that was roughly 1/3 of my height. I insisted that I would only use this pencil in school.
It was an unlucky year to be stricken with whimsy. My third grade teacher was a tyrannical Japanese woman fueled by her dislike of children. I suspect the cultural divide between how she expected children to behave and the reality of American children broke her.
She was three foot nothing and getting berated by her was the first time Iâd ever looked down at an adult. I also saw her once standing next to her white 6â behemoth of a husband and tried to conceptualize how two such disparate people had sex. I never could.
If you think Iâm exaggerating her wrath itâs worth noting that my best friend at the time developed a stress disorder from this woman and I fell into a bizarre stutter that cleared up the moment I was out of class. In her classroom breaking down crying was a weekly occurrence.
But despite the frigid conditions, I persevered. I stayed silly. I brought my enormous novelty pencil to class every day. It was an act of rebellion that I sank my teeth into and refused to let go. I could barely sharpen it because its girth defied standard sharpeners the way I defied my teacher. This was my pencil.
When she attempted to confiscate my giant pencil I rose an unholy ruckus. This would not turn into the confiscated holographic Charizard, my tamagotchi, or my little pop frogs that she never returned to me. No. This was my goddamn pencil. There was no rules against enormous novelty pencils and after a heated week of debate she finally conceded I could use the hated thing.
It was stolen by my kleptomaniac friend a week or so after that a fact Iâd only discover at the end of the year. But my tiny mind was convinced the evil teacher had stolen it.
In retaliation, instead of resuming normal behavior I decided that I would do all my writing upside down and backwards. No one, least of all myself, could explain why I felt this was necessary. Maybe I felt Iâd be cool like a spy, maybe I just needed to buck the teachers hateful authority, or maybe I was just a little autistic kid.
When taking notes or writing essays Iâd arrange the paper to be upside down. It may surprise you to know that my penmanship was actually quite decent, albeit I wrote a little more slowly than my classmates. Thatâs why it took the teacher a while to realize what was going on. There wasnât a drop in the quality of my writing.
Unsurprisingly she hated it when she found out. She lambasted me both privately and in front of the class to write normally. I asked if my writing was illegible. She had to admit that no, it was not. I shrugged. I did not see a problem.
Like the pencil my new writing fixation was cited as being a distraction to the other children. But similarly she didnât have an easy way to make me stop. She marked me down, gave me several talking tos, and generally bullied me into writing like everyone else.
All attempts at correcting me simply ran off my back. I had found a way to cope with how miserable she made all of us, by inflicting misery back upon her. I was unswayed for the rest of the year.
When I graduated up into fourth grade and had a teacher I adored it suddenly stopped. I looked at the paper and thought, Well thatâs silly, and flipped it the right way round.
I can still write upside down, though, a testament to my worst year in public school.
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