Mardi Gras

The following story was selected after tabulating the overwhelming responses from the previus piece. By a wide margin those who voted chose to have me write about my most embarassing moment. What I've written here is prefaced by the fact that I've recalled the events as I recall them. I make no claim to their overall or specific accuracy. Shoot, who knows if this stuff actually happened. If you don't agree with my recounting, get your own blog. :)

Mardi Gras

I was once a runt of a young teen, the cuteness of childhood had given way to the cruel abnormalities of that awkward time, the teen years. I always felt a bit more put upon by nature than most people. Foremost in my mind everyday was one simple and consuming thought, “When will I hit puberty?” From the time I entered sixth grade until the time I exited tenth grade, I feared the gang shower after PE class. Back in those days, we had to “dress out for gym class.” After class, we were mandated to take a shower in the very public, pubic gang showers-pubic for all but me. There wasn’t much in the world that I believed I would hate more than taking that gang shower. Every day, I was forced to strip naked, baring my bald body with tiny parts, and mix in with hairy testosterone monsters who thought nothing about their cruel ridiculing proclamations directed at me. I hated them. I hated them all.

My body wasn’t all I was embarrassed by. Ever since I was about six years old, I resembled Bugs Bunny. When I was very young, I would put myself to sleep by sucking my thumb and rubbing my “bah” (blanket) between my fingers. The soft feel of the bah between my fingers combined with the therapeutic sucking, put me out every time. This behavior was probably cute when I was two, concerning when I was four, but alarming when I was seven. That’s when my brother threw away the tattered remains of my bah. I cried and cried, screamed and ranted and railed that day. Apparently though, sucking my thumb through those formative years caused my two front teeth to “buck.” They didn’t just protrude a little over my bottom teeth; they seemed to stretch to the bottom of my chin. By the time I was in fourth grade, my parents had me in an orthodontist’s office and programmed for monthly ritualistic ortho-chair torture sessions. Over time, my buck teeth were corralled and shoved back in to my face, but as sixth grade approached, my evil tooth master decided that braces would be my next painful test. Little did I know how those steel fittings and that mandatory “head gear” would hurt both physically and emotionally.

I entered sixth grade a strange, shy, hairless creature with a stainless steel bar strapped to my face. Yet, somehow-despite such a heap of physical barriers- I began to eek out an existence within a social substrata. It wasn’t easy. My locker, number 666, was located right next door to the “shop,’ a place where some of the more nefarious hellions passed the time of day. Of course, when these old-school, pot-smoking bullies passed by me while I stood blankly and passively at my locker, I was frequently shoved, slammed, and cursed. My next door locker neighbor was a tough, wiry pothead named John Smith. John was in school simply to deal pot. He kept it in his locker, and he was guarded by a large man-child named Vincent Smith (no relation). Vincent was an imposing black man, already over six feet tall in sixth grade. Every time a deal was going down next to my locker, John and Vincent would threaten me that if I ever were to tell anyone what was happening, I would be killed. I lived in fear every time I walked those halls. I was always afraid that John and Vincent would get caught because I knew they would make good on their promise to erase me. (side note: At my 25^th class reunion, I bumped in to John Smith. He was a skinny, broken man with no front teeth who looked about 70 years old. Strangely, he was very nice to me and seemed to have no recollection of the hell he put me through.)

For me, band class was a respite from the insanity and meanness of intermediate school. There, I escaped into a musical fantasy world and hid behind my trombone, later my tuba. With braces and ex-buck teeth, my mouth was perfectly stretched from my ritualistic torture sessions to be able to produce consistent tone from the large low brass mouthpiece family. The tuba was also an excellent choice for me because it was so huge, I could hide behind it, thus allowing me to continue my stealth education.

Another respite I had throughout these ages was sports. Despite my size, I loved to play football and basketball. My father was an excellent athlete in his day, and he guided me to acquire many skills. I spent many years playing in the youth leagues. However, by the time I advanced to intermediate school, I no longer was a starting offensive guard, simply because my 100 pound body was no match for the 175 pound monsters I would have to block. My seventh grade year was the last time I played organized football (I’d later rekindle my football career through band football-an especially brutal form of the game played full speed, recklessly without pads in all weather). That year, our jerseys were that of my most hated NFL team, the disgusting Washington Redskins. We had the old burgundy and gold jerseys made out of some synthetic, itchy space-aged polymer. Sometimes, just to be cool, I’d wear my jersey -#79- to school.

That’s what I was wearing on the most embarrassing day of my life.

Every year, our school sponsored a Mardi-Gras parade around the gymnasium. It was always a pretty cool event in my opinion. In the week leading up to the special day, the school would get decorated; dynamic and colorful banners plastered all over the school, lots of party tape linked across the ceilings, and creative signs everywhere. An election was held to determine the spoiled, popular, bully couple in the school. The winner was always, invariably, the football star from the intermediate school team and the sexiest, gabbiest cheerleader from the cheerleading squad. Nerdy looking freaks like me would never be considered for such positions. Our role was simply that of support. We were to love our king and queen and bow down to them as they were paraded before us.

Now, I didn’t get into that particular aspect of the celebration at all, but I did think the parade was pretty cool. In fact as a seventh grader, for the first time in my life, I actually wanted to take part in the parade. In order to do that, all students had to do was to bring a costume to school, change into it in the minutes before the final period mardi gras assembly. In years past, revelers would leap freely around the gym tossing candy to everyone else. With a costume on, no one knew who anyone else was. For a few minutes, I figured, I could be like everyone else. I could be accepted and a part of the coveted mainstream. I dreamed of being popular, of having hair and bigger parts. I dreamed dreams that would be unattainable.

As the parade approached, I had one looming problem...I had forgotten my costume that day, and I was in a quiet, nervous panic. All of my dreams were about to be wrecked. All through my sixth period PE class, I thought and thought about how I could get in to that parade. I was obsessed with it. I wanted it so badly.

We had been playing softball that day in PE. When class ended, we were dismissed to change in to our costumes. Since I had none, glove in hand, I headed to the gym. Soon everyone assembled there and the festivities began. The king was named, predictably the football team quarterback. The queen was named, likewise a very sexy cheerleader. They were paraded about the gym with adoring cheers buffeting their every popular movement. Finally, the moment of truth was upon the student body. It was time for the costume judging and the pending pandemonium. It was time to party and your ticket to party was a costume!

Mr. Johnson, the ex-basketball coach from the high school and our tired principal, approached the microphone and declared that all costumed students may now enter the parade and be judged. I couldn’t believe it. Reality began to sink in. I was going to miss out on this opportunity, all the build-up I had created in my head was for naught. I was instantly depressed. Sadly, I remember putting my head in my baseball glove, tears secretly forming in my eyes.

It was in that most vulnerable moment, that my stressed mind came up with perhaps the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever had. Without filtering the idea and considering the consequences, I said to myself, “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve got a costume! I’m wearing my Redskin jersey, and I’ve got a baseball glove. That’s a costume!” Without a moment’s consideration, I leaped from my seat on the bleachers and jumped onto the basketball court joining the revue. Proudly, I spread the baseball glove, plopped it on top of my head, and began parading around the gym with all of the other contestants.

I never realized, I suppose, with my mind’s eye, exactly how stupid and out of place I looked at that moment, a goofy looking kid with an itchy Redskin jersey and a Ron Santo baseball glove on his head. If I only knew, I would have crawled under a rock. That revelation wouldn’t come for a couple more minutes.

The parade led me around the gym. Every costumed student was participating with some kind of detailed, carefully crafted costume. Many had layers of colorful feathers. Others were creative constructions made from painted boxes and paper materials. Some were stitched from material lovingly by some parent with the goal of winning the honor of best costume. I was a day late and a dollar short as well as being completely out of my league.

As I finished my first lap around and came in front of the bleachers again, I felt a hand hard pressed on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks and of course stopping the whole parade.

The music paused.

The people grew quiet.

In that moment, my world ended.

Principal Johnson placed his square, wrinkled face directly in front of mine and barked, “Sit down son, that ain’t no costume. And take that ridiculous glove off your head.!”

I obeyed.

As I turned to walk back to my bleacher spot, I looked up at the bleachers and saw hundreds of laughing eyes focused on me, their jeers piercing my soul. I couldn’t help the tears that streamed from my broken face. I’ll never forget those laughing eyes. They multiplied and jiggled like a kaleidoscope through my tear-stained eyes.

The music started as I began the climb back to my seat.

The revelers leaped back into action.

Principal Johnson turned his glare back onto the costume judging.

I just sat and put my head right back in my glove and wished those awkward years and that horrible moment away. I hated them all.