A bit of the old ultra-violence, my Droogs.
Child-on-teacher violence? HA! In those days, teachers straightened you out and you’d sit and take it. Parents shrugged. I’m not so foolish to think that this hadn’t gone on for years all over the country. And we were just middle class nudniks, not battle-hardened kids from the city.
Mr. Brown’s simple hands-on approach–grab you by the arm, toss you into wall, and when you bounced back, repeat. There were two faces, you either got his crocodile smile, or the I’m-a-serious-psycho-you-shit’ grimace. Then you’re pulled out of line and escorted back of the line, another toss to the wall, usually with a tough guy trope, like “You wanna try me again?”
This was very enlightening. The Foon was so laconic, you just knew he never got anywhere by violence. He was so tall and wide, he never had to lift a pinkie. He hired teachers and others who could do his dirty work. Sound like anyone else’s boss out there?
Our French teacher, Mrs. Weinrich, specialized in the hair pull. She’d walk behind you, grab hair and yank. You had to stand, the pain was too much. I got it once or twice. Just lay like a dog (metaphorically), show your belly and let her know she was the lead wolf. She did meet her match, though, with a girl named Chris. Chris had cascading blonde hair and, as I saw, a temper when pushed. Although Chris was ‘arty’ (ie, not interested in boys), she was very sociable, and I guess she whispered to a friend one too many times. Weinrich had half her hair in her hand, Chris did not flinch. Weinrich: “It hurts less if you stand up.” Chris just shrugs, her eyes aglow with hate. Scary shit, I mean to tell ya! Stalemate for maybe half a minute. Chris grudgingly does a verbal mea culpa; Weinrich gets to walk away and save some face.
But the king-ass violent tarantula was Mr. Waite. Six foot 6 of raw muscle. He physically picked boys up, usually against the wall; but in the classroom, he could knock you sideways off your chair or just push the chair so you fell. He didn’t yell, just raised his voice. He had a face like the old man, radiating fury. I didn’t have him for any subjects, but saw his violent side first hand in the halls, lunchroom, and once in the boys bathroom.
His escapades reverberated through school like thunder–who got hit, what Waite said, how far he picked the kid up, etc. You could talk about him on the bus and make fun of our school’s little touch of neanderthal, but you never spoke or made eye contact when he was near.
While Weinrich stayed many more years, Waite supposedly left after two years. Was he given the heave-ho by Foon? Did parents complain? We never knew and besides, when you’re in high school, junior high was the Mesozoic period and not worth discussing.