July 15, 2010
Teachers Sexually Abusing Children
I was four.
I was kicked out of kindergarten.
Mom sent me straight to school.
My friends were still playing while I was uprooted from home, every morning, to grasp content two years older than my chronological and cognitive abilities.
School was a chore. Until that '93 middle school freshman year.
Ongoing laughter had resulted in year-end academic achievement rewards. Some classmates and I decided to decorate our classroom for the festivities.
Glitter all over, all giggles, we thought we had school all to us.
A classroom away, a teacher was tidying up his desk. My ebb and flow to grab decorations must have caught his attention. He ordered me to enter.
To my surprise, he said we had unfinished business. That he held a grudge against me. Laughing the news off, I argued not knowing him.
His face hardening, he exclaimed "This is no laughing matter!"
He slammed his books and sat on a table, thighs spread. He, then, ordered me to get closer. My gulps amplified, I stopped an inch from his knees.
Discontent, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer.
A button flew off.
"What am I to make of you, handsome?", he whispered, his eyes salivating, while contemplating the skin the missing button revealed.
Insistent I owed him, he instructed I get on my knees and crawl the classroom.
His voluptuous thighs almost touching my zipper, combined with the probability of him molesting me, was unbearable. I burst into tears.
Hearing me cry, my classmates ran in.
He feigned innocence saying he was just teasing me. The girls escorted me out, shocked such a popular teacher was a pedophile.
Petrified, I decided to skip attending the day after's ceremony.
Guess who became my Arabic teacher for the following two years?
To indulge his vice, he divided us into boys-only and girls-only groups. Each week, one group attended a "make up session" to help us with ambiguous lessons. He and his shadiness were the only ambiguity.
He brought a sexual jokes encyclopedia he'd delight in telling. To the euphoria of my fellow boy classmates. I cared for no such content, especially from him, attracting criticism from the boys.
"Oh, relax!" they'd say.
Seated across from him, subjected to his hungry-wolf stare, made his class seem an eternity. My grades were as desolate. Justifiably.
A pity a pedophile sabotaged my relationship with school's rekindling inception. Why like school when it employs pedophiles?
I was 11 when I asked that question.
Song of abused childhood: Luka, by Suzanne Vega.