My Bleeding Tongue

“What are you doing?”

“Tonight’s homework.”

“How do you know I’m going to assign it?”

“Well… you usually do. And even if you don’t, it’s good practice.” A grin and a slow nod to acknowledge my ingenuity. Her large round eyes narrowing to almonds.

“Good answer.”

A conversation with my 8th grade math teacher. Most of our interactions were like this. A little tense. Power dangling on the tip of a straight pin, never quite certain on which side to fall. That particular dialogue took place while she was teaching. I was scribbling away in my notebook not paying a lick of attention to what she was saying.

A few weeks later.

“What are you doing?”

I look up incredulously, as my doing was quite apparent. “Reading a book.” The book was “Christine” by Stephen King, to be precise.

“Put it down.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve just finished a test and the rule is that when you finish a test, you sit quietly or do homework.”

“I’m sitting quietly.”

“I don’t care. You’re not allowed to read.” Perhaps she saw the daggers that flew from my eyes and landed in her primary organs. I toss the book, somewhat loudly, on my desk.

“That’s it. Go see the principal. I’ve had it with your attitude.”” I could only grin at this suggestion. Sister Catherine loved me. She might have often wondered if I’d personally hung the moon so high and brightly in the sky simply for her merriment.

“Sister Catherine,” I said, when I reached her office, “Ms. Smith has a problem with my attitude.” Thirty minutes, she sends me on my way.

“Well,” the math teacher asks, “what did she say?”

While exhibiting my the shiny whiteness of my molars and probably a little too much gum, I looked her directly in the eye to say, “She said that since there’s nothing she can do about my attitude, she’s going to shut up and let me go.” I think I saw a look of dejection in her face, but I can’t be sure.

It didn’t make any sense. I was doing, more or less, exactly as she asked. Why was she behaving so illogically? It was as if she believed, in the general pecking order of things, she should be doing the pecking and I should be in a corner somewhere, licking my wounds. Just because.

“Eat your peas,” Mom would command of her children. I hated peas. I never wanted to eat my peas. It didn’t make any sense. Of what value was eating peas? The only result of pea-eating was a chunky, slimy, green mound in the toilet. “Why?”” I would plead. “Because I said so.”

Because I said so is not a reason. Because I said so is a very compact way of saying, “I don’t know why, really. But I want you to do this. And, because I’m bigger or more important than you.”

People don’t like it when you ask why. I know this, because I tend to ask why a lot and it often results in various forms of torture and punishment. I’m pretty sure someone even tried to kill me once.

“You need to sit here.” My first job. My fellow employees were able to choose their seats, but for some reason mine was assigned.

“Why?”

“Because this is where you need to sit.” Is there an echo in here?

“Why?”

“Just sit here.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes.

A few weeks later.

“Don’t wear sleeveless shirts.”

“Why not?” If our office is hot, I’d be more comfortable (and more productive) if I’m not forced to wear clothing that makes me sweat like a polar bear in an old wood stove.

“Because when we have visitors, it doesn’t look professional.” But we don’t see the outside world here.

“Because I said so.” Here we go again.

I remember once, I was on the phone with a client and had to leave my desk to pick up a form. I passed by her office on my way to the forms and she stopped me.

“Hang on a second,” I said. “I have a client on the phone. I’ll swing back by when I’m off.” I walked away to grab the form as she comes flying out of her office, her curly gray hair pointy, her eyes wide.

“Do not speak to me that way!” She said this through clenched teeth.

“What?”

“Get back here right now!” She was enraged. Her face was red. Her hands tight as she pointed to the floor of her office.

“What?”

“Never speak to me that way. I am your manager and you are not to treat me so dismissively.”

I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying something like, “You idiot, don’t you realize I have a client on the phone and your little power trip is not important right now?”

Instead I said, “I’m sorry. I still have a client on the phone. Why don’t I go talk to him then I’ll come back here when I’m done?”

“No!” Hair sticking up now. “You will talk to me right now.”

“Right now?” I asked, incredulous. “While the customer waits?”

“Yes!” She lectured me for a good three to five minutes. I have no idea what she said.

A few years later. A new job.

“Print this ad.” Seriously? You want me to print this nonsense? This monstrosity? Surely you jest. Who’s the marketing expert around here, anyhow? I’m embarrassed to work for a company who thinks this is a good idea. You people are idiots.

“Maybe we should show customers what they could do with this type of loan instead of just posting the interest rate.” I suggest. Gently. Less confrontational. Gnawing on my tongue to stop myself from saying exactly what I think.

“Print this ad.”

“Okay.”

That was over ten years ago. I’ve worked for a handful of managers who have caused unimaginable amounts of tongue abuse.

Sometimes it bleeds.