At the place where I went to elementary school, third grade was the first time in which we had more than one teacher; in previous grades, one teacher handled every subject. Starting in third grade, we had a homeroom teacher who would teach math, reading, and science, and at some point during the day, we would walk across the hall to a different teacher who would teach social studies. Once again, this was the first time any of us had a social studies class. I did not know this at the time, but [Homeroom Teacher] is actually distantly related to my family.
On the first day of school, we went to [Homeroom Teacher]’s class first, and she got up and gave a big speech about how we would all get along great and how all her former students loved her. Then, she had us all link arms and sing “We Are Family,” which I thought was a little odd but seemed like a good sign. Things also seemed pretty normal in [Social Studies Teacher]’s class, though I was pretty bored by it because it was really basic stuff I already knew, like defining what a culture is.
The next day, however, was when the proverbial you-know-what hit the fan. It is rather embarrassing to admit, but in elementary school, I had problems controlling my bowels. It eventually turned out that a stomach bug was going around, but my problems were worse and lasted longer than my classmates’, so I think it may have been an underlying problem, perhaps exacerbated by the stomach illness. Thankfully, I have long since overcome those problems. But back at the time when these events were happening, my mother eventually started sending me to school with a clean set of underwear in a Ziploc bag in case I had any “accidents.” In the middle of our math class that day, I felt nature’s call coming on, so I raised my hand and asked [Homeroom Teacher] for permission to use the restroom. I distinctly remember her giving entirely unambiguous permission, which is important for what comes next.
I, unfortunately, did not make it to the bathroom in time and had to change into the clean undies, putting the soiled underwear in the Ziploc bag and wrapping that in a plastic grocery bag to keep it from grossing people out. I walked back to my homeroom classroom and tried to get in, but the door was locked. I knocked on the door, but there was no response. I thought my teacher probably didn’t hear me, so I knocked louder. I saw through the window as [Homeroom Teacher] looked up from her lectern where she was teaching, made eye contact with me, and continued teaching. I started hysterically pounding on the door, and eventually, she walked over, opened the door, and said:
Homeroom Teacher: “You disrupted my class when you left without permission, so I will NEVER, EVER LET YOU BACK IN MY CLASS AGAIN!”
Then, she slammed the door, leaving me sobbing in the hall with a bag of poopy underwear in my hands. [Social Studies Teacher], who was not having class then, came out to see what all the noise was about. I tearfully told her what happened, and she scolded me for being disruptive but allowed me to sit in her classroom so I wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.
She went out in the hall to discuss it with [Homeroom Teacher]. I didn’t catch what they said, but after what felt like an hour — but was probably just a few minutes — I was allowed back into my homeroom class.
I know we did not have lockers in elementary school, but I don’t remember if we had cubbies in the classroom after kindergarten or not. In any case, I disposed of the bag of dirty undies either in my cubby or under my desk; I kind of think it was the latter. After a few minutes, [Homeroom Teacher] swooped down on me in full fury and told me she was taking me to the principal to get paddled because I had dirty underwear. She marched me down to the office.
Homeroom Teacher: “I want to see the principal. [My Name] needs to be paddled.”
Receptionist: “For what reason?”
[Homeroom Teacher] looked around conspiratorially and then stage-whispered:
Homeroom Teacher: “Some of the other students said he smelled funky.”
Receptionist: “Er, I’m sorry, but the principal is not here today.”
And that was the end of it, or so I thought. Nevertheless, the next day, my social studies class was interrupted by a furious custodian bursting in and demanding to see me by name. I had no clue what he was talking about, but I had to follow him. It turned out that he had found a large pile of human feces on the floor of the boys’ bathroom, and [Homeroom Teacher] had “helpfully” informed him that she knew for a fact that I was responsible.
I tried explaining to him that I was innocent, but he ignored me and kept screaming about how he worked hard to keep the bathrooms clean and kids like me made his job harder because we had no respect for him. I was less firm in defending my own innocence than I might have been otherwise because he was starting to plant seeds of doubt in my mind. I had, in fact, done number two in that bathroom this morning around the time he said it must have happened, so could I have somehow gone on the floor without noticing?
But that became a ridiculous notion once we finally got to the bathroom and he forced me to gaze upon the turd in all its disgustingness. It was probably the size of my head; surely there was no way I could have produced that without knowing it. Most disgustingly of all, there was a prominent sneaker print right on top of the pile. In a moment of dubious intelligence, I compared the tread on the bottom of my shoes to that on the shoe print, as though no one but the perpetrator could have left the mark. This logical fallacy was enough for the janitor to believe I was innocent, though, and he let me go.
If it was enough for the janitor, unfortunately, it was not enough for [Homeroom Teacher]. As soon as my class returned to her room, she lit into me about it and dragged me along with her to find “proof.” We went to the bathroom, where she accosted a random teacher who happened to be taking her students on a potty break.
Homeroom Teacher: “Did any of your students use the bathroom this morning?”
Teacher #2: “No.”
Homeroom Teacher: “Did you see [My Name] head toward the bathroom today?”
Teacher #2: “Well, yes.”
Homeroom Teacher: “See! That proves it! We’re going to the office!”
She dragged me to the office and it was the same story as last time. She demanded I be paddled, and the receptionist said we had just missed the principal. I couldn’t believe my luck, but years later, I realized the principal very likely was in, but the receptionist could plainly see [Homeroom Teacher] was off her rocker and so lied about the principal to protect me.
At some point later in the week, [Homeroom Teacher] came to pick up my class from art class. Someone mentioned that they had heard that the janitors discovered feces on the floor of the girls’ bathroom that morning as they were opening up the school.
Homeroom Teacher: “It was him! [My Name] did it! I know he did!”
I was left wondering how in the world she thought I managed to break into the school in the middle of the night to defecate on the floor, not to mention why.
I was out sick with the previously mentioned stomach bug for a full week, and when I returned to school, I met several of my classmates in the hall on the way to class. I encountered each of them separately, and each time they walked away without responding to me.
Classmate #1: “Hey, [My Name], why’d you turn evil?”
Me: “What?”
Classmate #2: “[My Name]! Good kid gone bad!”
Me: “What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything bad.”
And so it continued, all the way to my homeroom class. I eventually learned that [Homeroom Teacher] had spent the entire week I was absent preaching to the class how evil I was. My mother was livid when she heard about all this, and she came to school to speak to [Homeroom Teacher] about it several times. Every time, though, [Homeroom Teacher] would just continue cleaning her classroom or whatever chores she was doing that day, not acknowledging my mom at all.
When she saw my teacher wasn’t going to change, my mom told the principal about it, and they finally settled on having me moved up a grade to get away from [Homeroom Teacher]. I left third grade just before we were about to study multiplication, so I had a lot of catching up to do in fourth grade, but I managed to succeed anyway.
Additionally, the entire rest of the time I was in elementary school, I had to use the staff bathroom instead of the student bathroom so that it would be clear I was not responsible for any floor defecation which appeared. There were no more attacks of the phantom pooper.
Some relatives from [Homeroom Teacher]’s side of the family told us that [Homeroom Teacher] had something serious wrong mentally, but no one in the family seemed to even consider helping her get treatment. Apparently, she singled out one student every year to terrorize as she did to me. As far as I know, she never received any reprimand and is still teaching third grade, though at a different school now since all the elementary schools in my hometown merged and switched around teachers when I was in fifth grade. Also, as far as I know, the mystery of the poop appearing on the floor after closing time was never solved; my money is on [Homeroom Teacher].
