Raccoon Toons

Once upon a time, I used poor judgement. I know that may come as a shock to many of you on account of my excellent and spotless record over the years -cough- but I must confess, I have not always been the exemplary pillar of valor that I am today.

It all went down in the 3rd grade. 3rd grade was a weird year you see. The teacher to which I had been assigned was on maternity leave. As a result, the teaching responsibilities for all of the 3rd grade classes were divided up between a host of different teachers. When it finally became obvious to everyone that the absent teacher was enjoying her maternity leave far more than originally anticipated and would NOT be returning to her teaching duties at any point during the school year, the district finally got their act together and hired an additional teacher. The result, was Miss Brooks.

Miss Brooks was young. Likely the youngest teacher at our elementary school. Her figure was thin and attractive which set her apart from all of the other elementary school teachers. She wore her hair in a pony tail that whipped around whenever she turned her head. In truth, Miss Brooks was kind of hot. I desperately wanted her to like me.

But instead, she hated my guts.

Before I plead my case, let me first explain that as an elementary school student, I was a really good kid. I’m not being clever or sarcastic this time. I WAS a REALLY good kid. I was quiet and good-natured. I never got in trouble. I got along with most everyone. Boys liked me because I knew a lot about baseball. Girls liked me because I could draw and didn’t say bad words. I always raised my hand. I was a good kid. I can provide character witnesses if need be.

But for reasons that still baffle me to this day, Miss Brooks hated my guts. She began her tenure by instructing some of the classes on Fridays. Every week I tried so very hard to please this beautiful and attractive women. And yet, she always treated me with harshness. Her responses to my questions were cold. Her patience continually wore thin with me. My trademark Matt Taylor charm was rendered useless on her. More than once I found her muttering unkind epithets about me under her breath. I couldn’t understand it. I was a good kid! I KNEW I was a good kid! Teachers always liked me! How could this teacher not like me?? I felt like she had somehow gotten the wrong idea about me and I was continuously trying to prove to her the kind of student that I was.

But no matter how hard I tried, this young and vivacious teacher persisted to hate me. I suppose now that I’m older I shouldn’t be surprised that a beautiful and attractive women was capable of treating someone with such disdain for no particular reason, but as a young 3rd grader I had not as of yet experienced these things and it was the source of much anxiety in my young and troubled 3rd grade life.

And then one dark and fateful day, there was the incident…and any remaining hope of moving into the graces of this young and vibrant teacher were forever destroyed.

On that particular Friday, our school had been invited to attend the local theater to see a play. These field trips were always welcome distractions. We would board the school buses and make our way across our little town and watch whatever performance was being displayed for our amusement.

As we piled into the noisy theater I took a seat next to a fellow classmate and we anxiously awaited the beginning of the performance. But before the house lights dimmed, Miss Brooks walked by. With her evil and twisted glare she looked at me and the classmate to my right.

“You must remove your hats inside the theater,” she exclaimed.

Politely, we protested. No other teacher had ever made us remove our baseball caps in the theater before. We had been attending these plays for 3 years! She had been at the school for nothing more than a few weeks!

She insisted. We pointed to the literally COUNTLESS other boys in the theater who were wearing baseball caps. To make matters perfectly clear, this was immediately following the year in which BOTH of the professional baseball teams in our area went to the World Series. As a result, literally EVERY boy came to school wearing a baseball cap.

But she didn’t care about what all the other kids were wearing. We would remove our hats, or she would remove them for us.

Begrudgingly, we removed our beloved baseball caps and set them on our laps. Proudly, Miss Brooks marched down the aisle like some kind of baseball hating hat-nazi and sat at the other side of the theater.

Let me pause here for just a moment to reiterate something that should already be clear to you. 3rd grade boys wear baseball caps. They wear them everyday. And a boy’s baseball cap is his identity. It’s like his soul. You don’t ask a boy to remove his soul.

And so like clockwork, as the play was about to begin the theater lights dimmed. And when the room was dark, each and every one of us took our baseball caps from off our laps, and placed them proudly upon our heads once more. It was not an act of defiance. It was an act of honor.

When the play ended the lights came on. Miss Brooks immediately walked in my direction. We had removed our hats once the lights had come back on, but it was to no avail. Miss Brooks snatched the hats from our grasp.

“I saw you put your hats back on as soon as it was dark! You’ll have to get these from me later!”

Words do not express the horror of the situation. Even now, the very thought of that abrasive woman stealing my beloved Giants hat away from me causes me to tremble. It was truly traumatizing. I should probably seek therapy.

For the rest of the day I had to endure a hat-less day of misery and hat-hair. My identity was missing. My soul was lost.

I waited anxiously through the course of the day. I thought for sure she would eventually return my hat to me. But the end of the day arrived, and my head remained bare. I saw no other recourse, but do timidly approach Miss Brooks after school and ask for my hat.

Terrified, I arrived at the classroom. She opened the door, her cold, icy stare piercing my poor child-like frame. With all the 3rd-grade humility I could muster I asked for my hat to be restored.

Blatantly, the woman refused.

I pleaded for her to see reason.

With a sort of twisted sense of satisfaction glowing deep within those burning, vengeful eyes, she refused again. My hat would remain in her custody over the entire weekend, and perhaps longer, until she saw fit.

The thought of being without my hat for a whole weekend or perhaps longer sent me into a frenzy. Frantically, I searched my mind for a way to restore my beloved baseball cap. I saw no answers. I saw no appeal to reason. There were no amount of pleasantries or charm that would melt this woman’s complete and utter hatred for me. It was at this darkest moment, when I was left completely without options, that I did something that I am not especially proud of. I hope that you will not judge me too harshly considering the nature of these circumstances.

As she stared at me with all of her bitter spite and animosity, I realized there was only one thing I could do…

I admit it. I pretended to cry.

Never before had I managed to command a well of tears so quickly and in such abundance. The waterworks poured over my face with tears streaming from my eyes like torrential rain. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But this was the only answer to her injustice. My hat—my identity, my very soul, was on the line.

Panicked, Miss Brooks ran into the classroom. In a sort of exasperated and reluctant huff, she thrust my beloved hat into my hands with a mixture of anger and fear.

“Fine. Here’s your hat.”

I still remember the moment in which I held my baseball cap in my arms once more. It seemed to emanate love and admiration for my sacrifice in its behalf. I felt as if I had been reunited with a long lost friend. I was myself again. I was whole.

Tearfully, I offered the sincerest “thank you” to Miss Brooks that I could. But in truth, it was all an act. No longer was I trying to seek this woman’s approval. Inside I was mocking her. Laughing that she had believed my performance. What an actor I must be! When at last I had my hat, I turned from her classroom and placed it proudly on my head. I wiped the crocodile tears from my face and literally laughed to myself as I walked away, a devious grin stretching across my face.

“Hahaha!” I laughed under my breath, so that she wouldn’t hear as I walked proudly across campus. “Stupid fool.”

I plead guilty your honor. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.