I had an out of body moment yesterday. I’d been dealing with a third grader (no, I don’t teach third graders) for over an hour at this point. He’s an adorable red headed kid. Everyone that sees us says that he could be my son. I like to think it’s because we are both adorable, but I think it has more to do with his red hair, like what I used to have. Of course, if he were my kid, he’d have a weight problem already. Anyway, for the thousandth time, this kid took off, zooming around, weaving in and out of the other six or so kids in the room, trying to make his way to the door. I sprinted to the huge horseshoe shaped table that we use for reading lessons (the boy was on the other side…you know, doing the which-way-are-you-gonna-go-I’m-gonna-go-the-other game). Racing forward I stabled myself with my left hand on the rim and catapulted myself up and over the table. [Freeze frame. This is where my out of body experience came from. It was quite literally like I stepped back from myself and took in the view of the scene. Six 4rd-6th grade boys scattered around in their desks, all staring. One red headed 3rd grader, eyes wide in shock, staring up above him. A nearly two hundred pound, short, tattooed teacher, suspended mid-air above the center table of the classroom (who said doing hurdles in high school wouldn’t relate to my adulthood?—too bad I came in last place in every damned race. Maybe I should try now?) I couldn’t believe my ‘eyes.’ Do other teachers do this? What if there was a camera in my class… I could be on the news… Probably not in a good way… One of those stories of the ‘innocent’ kid and the abusive teacher… Uh huh…] As I landed on the ground (on my feet thank you) I simultaneously scooped up my little redhead and informed him, that can run as much as he wants, that I’ll always catch him. I let him go, giving him the option of walking calmly and sensibly back to his desk or running again and seeing how far he could get. [Techniques not taught in grad school. Grad school was useless, really.] He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, then turned, walked back to his desk, and sat. (Thank God. I’m still trying to catch my breath.)
I learned a new word. Courtesy of ‘Rev.’ James David Manning of the ATLAH World Mission Church in New York City. In a sermon warning of all us damnable queers, he cautioned his parishioners of the upcoming bestiality epidemic. (Just because I fall into the ‘Wolf’ category of my gay culture, and am often attracted to ‘Muscle Bears’ doesn’t mean that I actually want to be ravaged by a grizzly. Maybe a Polar bear, I do like size… or a Panda, they are rather adorable. (Alright, Rev. Manning, you’ve set me upon the path of desiring woodland (and other landscape) creature. Thanks a lot.) He also encouraged his followers to use three words with abandon to get people’s attention. Faggot and Sodomites. The final word this African-American ‘preacher’ encouraged was Bulldaggers. Now, I’ve been called many, many things as people yelled at me in reference to my gayability, but never bulldagger I thought I’d heard them all. I kinda liked this one. It sounds tough. Bulls. Sexy. Right, Rev. Manning? Strong like … Hung like a . . . Dagger. Sexy. Forceful. Dangerous. Penetration Utensil. Hell, yeah! Bulldagger? Sign me up! I looked it up on Wikipedia, anxious to embrace my new moniker.
My discovery? Bulldagger=Dyke
Great, to top off everything else in my life, it seems I have an unconscious desire to be a lesbian.
On an up note, I guess I won’t have to feel bad about wearing plaid flannel anymore (as I actually do love it) and no longer have to manscape. Anyone wanna give lessons on how to scissor?
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago