Today in class I sneezed, accidentally ejaculating mucous all over the back of Shekia’s head. Thank God she was wearing a weave.
“Ohh, man, look at that!” I point to the window with frenetic enthusiasm. And then quickly – and with utmost stealth – I swipe to pick the goober in one fluid grab.
Failure.
“I think it’s a falcon!” I try again, this time adding an inconspicuous gust of breath.
Failure.
My concern for Shekia quickly turns to concern for myself. God has pushed me through the turnstiles. I have been given a get out of jail free card and a ride to the Reading; I would be stupid not to take it. Most imminently, she will discover that there is a moist strand of mysteriousity accessorizing the back of her noggin, and I do not want to be anywhere near her when she does.
Anxiously, I return to the front of the classroom. “Ok, ok, back to business now. It’s just a falcon.” I clear my throat, scratch my balls, and then slap my wooden pointer stick thing at the food web diagram I three minutes ago so beautifully created on the whiteboard.
The lesson continues. The seconds tick on. The suspense is unbearable.
With about six minutes left in the period, Ronnie flatulates …evidently. It seems his peers do not care to breathe within his proximity. They evacuate to the furthest depths of the room, where Gregory then makes a most astute observation:
“Shekia, you got fucking mucous on your head!”
There are few moments in one’s life more terrifying than when you go to scratch a pesky itch and it turns out that there is a gigantic insect on your body. One of those moments might be when you’re told you have fucking mucous on your head, and then when you feel the back of your head, there is fucking mucous on it. I can’t quite recall the fit verbatim, but some key phrases were:
“Ohh, hell no!”, “Fucking mucous in my hair!”, “Get this shit the fuck out!”
It seems Shekia’s attitude towards mucous hats is not one of enthusiasm. Furiously, she attempts to rid her hair of slime. Swatting. Slapping. Screaming. Swearing. From the sidelines, I try to quell the situation:
“Shekia, I don’t think that’s mucous.”
“Then what the fuck is it!”
I’m stumped.
When someone has a seizure, you’re supposed to just clear the area and let em rip. This was kind of like a seizure, so I followed similar protocol. After about thirty seconds of violent convulsions, Shekia lets out one final roar and storms out of the classroom in a huff. My students all look to me, wondering what’s next. Am I going to leave the ball of black, synthetic hair on the floor like that? Or will I pick it up and put it aside? You can actually see the real hair braided into it. I’ve always wondered how that worked.
mrkimble