The Problem of Goths

“What don’t you like about me?”

“Well…you’re ugly.”

Oops. Rewind.

There were days when I have humongous doubts regarding the logic behind the world’s nomenclature of people. Take a man who doesn’t like sports, who enjoys chick flicks and isn’t afraid to cry. Piece these facts together and you get yourself another fag. Because someone is American, it automatically makes him an idiot. Because a person is an octogenarian, you should watch the amount of space between you because that person is obviously incapable of performing any hygienic act.

And just because I enjoy black on my closet and eyelids, am pale, and very dark-haired, I am automatically classified a member of the Addam’s Family. I wouldn’t have mind, really.

If only they didn’t hold such catalog against the career option of kindergarten teaching.

I guess goth is a better tag to wear than psychopath any day. Just imagine the onerous life of Dr. Seuss! But I also want to teach little kids so my life’s really worse; don’t even want to think about the number of rejections I got from all the schools who think I don’t look right for the job.

“So…do I get the job?” [Smile.]

“Miss, um, Stahley, um, you have very good credentials, impeccable background.”

[Smile. And try hard to ignore the big BUT coming next.]

“But there’s one thing. You see, the image you’re projecting does not really sync with the school’s philosophy.“ [Translation: I don’t like your false eyelashes and pencil-thin eyebrows. And you could try to update your color palette…aren’t you too old for pigtails?]

The bitch.

Do a little paraphrasing and you get the same scenario in all the school’s I’ve applied for–it’s as if they can already imagine me teaching the kids how to sing, “Satan loves you this I know…”!

Well, except Little Me, that is.

Miss Lynch, the gargantuan head teacher, gave me my shortest interview to date.

“Why should I accept you?” Then the devil (or M. Jackson) chose that moment to reveal a great truth to me, so I answered: “Because you see your younger self in me, and you know I could actually be good.”

Static.

Then she belched. “Idiot. Be here first thing in the morning. No uniforms. Wear something you would normally wear to meet kids. Except yellow. It blinds me.”

Here’s a secret: I think she really hates kids. But yeah, I got accepted for my first teaching job ever. So the gal will forever hold a spot in my book.

Now fast forward to my first day, breaktime. Let’s skip the part where I introduce myself to the kids and worse, to the others (a.k.a Adults), and all the singing in between. It wasn’t as bad as the fast forwarding implies. I rather enjoyed how things played out.

Until Johnny, the devil’s child, happened.

I was supposed to get some me time (like normal adults who just spent almost an entire hour with kids do) while the kids play outside when I felt something poking the back of my thighs.

“Oh, hi there.” It was the kid with the obnoxious spectacles, the one with chains on it. “Johnny, right? Is there any problem?”

“You shouldn’t have gone here.”

Static.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think I know what you mean, Johnny.”

“Stop teaching here.”

“You don’t like me teaching you?”

“No, I just don’t like you.” Static. “Me and the others.”

“Oh.”

More static.

“So…the other kids asked you to approach me, huh?”

“They said I shouldn’t do it because you’ll get angry.”

Even more static.

“Are you?”

Combustion.

“No, Johnny. I’m not angry with you nor with your friends. Hey, I’m curious…”

[In which you enter the first two sentences of this saga.]

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