Me? A Sexist

Usually, I'm a quiet, simple kid, nothing special, just trying to make my parents proud of me like any average student. For some reason, though, I'm a sucker for a sexist. Not just all sexists in general, but male sexists, or as I like to call them, "Pigs!" Unfortunately, though, I had no idea my feelings would take me into such rough terrain that I wouldn't be able to handle it. It was a simple comment--something I've heard time and time again. But, I guess it was "the straw that broke the camel's back."

It was April 9, 1997. It was a hot day, right after lunch at Northeast High. I had World History with a brand-spanking new teacher. He had no inkling what he was doing, so, basically, the class walked him through the whole semester. He never had to enfoce much discipline, until today. Today the class was usually rowdy. Everyone was all riled up, particularly Doug and I, from a brawl between two other boys in the hallway the hour before. Sitting in the back of the classroom, way from everyone else, chatted Doug and I with one of his friends. The conversation seemed very "male" to me. They talked about cars, athletic shoes and girls, which, frankly, barely caught my ear.

Eventually I got wind of Doug's sister fixing the car and how "manly" she must have felt (as if it were a privilege.) Already half annoyed, I pressed with a simple question, "What's wrong with a woman fixing a car?" He be bit back at me with, "It's a man's job, not a girl's!" With those words my smoldering ember torched into an enormous bonfire. Holding back with all my strength, I managed to yelp out a "What?" Not suprised at all, he mumbled, "Women just can't do ANYTHING," as if he'd had his conversation a million times before. By this time my huge bonfire combusted to a raging wildfire. Knowing of only one way to let the steam escape I went for the hair. No, not my hair--his hair. I pulled as hard and as long as I could on his greasy, stringy, down-home-dirty mohawk! Exceedingly proud of myself, I let out a "HA! Women can't do anything, eh?" Instinctively, Doug lunged for my free arm. Last thing I remember is hearing a snap and sitting there in my desk stunned. Pain and misery were the only things passing through my mind. I couldn't comprehend the fact that he had taken my arm and twisted it behind my back--far beyond its limits. I sat there in utter awe, not knowing whether to scream and punch him or remain still and cry.

All at once it hit me. The pain was unimaginable. Trying to keep my cool (as that's what people do in public school), I let out a small pout. Suddenly a tear snuck past my emotional barrier. Then, in one large breath, out came my howls and cries. I was frantic. All my teacher could do was stand there. He had never dealt with such a situation in his life. Finally, he got up enough nerve to come over and ask what had happened. I told him. Poor Doug. His face turned redder than his shirt. Guys simply don't hurt girls in such a manner. When I was finished explaining, my teacher's pupils had dialated to about the size of golfballs. He was white-faced and baffled. How could something this bad happen in his class. He had been warned by other teachers but the warnings went in one ear and out the other. The only way he knew how to handle a wailing girl was to sent her to the clinic. The thing he didn't understand was that I couldn't move without excruciating pain. I knew that his inexperience wouldn't be able to amend the situation, so I did as I was told. I guess you could say that I would have loved to be in pain, for what I was feeling was far beyond any normal mortal feelings. For every step I took, it felt as if a bolt of lightning was striking my shoulder. No, this pain was way past comprehension.

Holding my arm as close to my chest as possible, I scanned the hall to check for potential hazards of reckless people or swinging doors. The hall seemed to grow longer and longer, as though it were taunting me. When I thought all hope was lost, that I would never make it alive, lo and behold appeared the golden door of life. I kicked on the door to get someone to open it for me; for no amount of money would I move--let alone let go of my arm. A kind young gentleman opened it for me and I hobbled in.

From there, this chaotic tragedy turns ito a blur of doctor bills and painful therapy. Things are calmer now, and I'm progessing everyday. Doug and I don't talk anymore, and I can say that I'm under complete control of my feelings, but I am more aware of my sensitivity toward my gender. In a way, I suppose I'm a sexist, too--but don't tell HIM that!