Only cats should scratch (Childhood, Part 8)
My parents raised a certified nerd. It’s not like they could help it with my mom being a chemical engineer and my dad being a metallurgist and teacher. The House of Science, a book that led you through different rooms of a house, each one a different science discipline, became my favorite book. I brought it with me everywhere and constantly re-answered the questions at the end of each “room,” desperately hoping one day to get them all right. For Christmas one year I got a chemistry set, a microscope another year. Yup. Nerd.
Fifth grade stands out in my mind for quite a few reasons. First, I my teacher me caught flipping her off and the look on her face is burned into my retinas. Second, my big mouth got in my trouble and the story I wrote about it for my tenth-grade school district writing assignment because the example story for the writing assignment the following year (for the ENTIRE school district, like four high schools). Third, and most importantly, my teacher, Mrs. March loved science and shared that love with us.
When we learned about the human body Mrs. March brought in all the innards of a pig to give the opportunity to see firsthand what we were learning. We cut open the stomach to view the pig’s last meal. Some idiot stabbed the small intestine with his finger and the whole classroom smelled like poo. Mrs. March also brought in extra hearts, cut them open, and passed them around, showing us what the chambers of the heart and valves looked like. For once class didn’t bore me. But I had other problems.
My dad temper flared up like a flamethrower from time to time. Most of the time it resulted in some verbal abuse. Other times, a little physical abuse (he never hit me or my mom, just pushed us around). Kids are like sponges. They soak up whatever they’re placed in. I soaked up my dad’s rage, and even some of his violence.
At school this translated into me getting a little violent with the other kids. I kept my nails long because I wanted to be a cat, and I used these long nails to scratch the shit out of anyone who pissed me off. Years later a guy showed me scars on his arm from when I scratched him in fifth grade. All of this happened on the playground, usually out of sight of my teacher and her aid.
Each week our class voted on someone to be somebody, though I can’t exactly remember what. To me it seemed like a popularity contest because the popular kids typically won. To be fair, nobody could be selected twice. Students nominated each other, and many time I received a nomination but didn’t win. This caught Mrs. March’s attention.
At a parent-teacher night Mrs. March took my parents and me aside to express her concern. She said she couldn’t understand why my peers never selected me. In class I helped other students out with their work, joked around and seemed to get along well. She started watching me on the playground. She saw me lash out at my classmates. After that conversation I learned to keep my claws to myself.












