Second grade, Catholic school, 1976. I'm standing in front of the class with some other students, writing cursive lower-case "l's" on the chalkboard. I am apparently not doing it right. The teacher comes over to me, grabs my cheek between her fingers, and shakes my head around while berating me.
This is not where the story ends.
At the end of the school day, I go to the office before my mom picks me up to go home, and tell the principal what happened. I kind of get the brush off, go climb into the back seat of my mom's yellow 1972 Cutlass, and go home.
This is not where the story ends.
Next day, I'm in class again, having mostly forgotten the previous day's nonsense. The principal shows up in the doorway and beckons me and the teacher into the hallway. Now I am fully reminded of the previous day, and kind of looking forward to what's about to happen.
Principal says to the teacher, "This young man tells me that you did this to him yesterday." -- grabbing my cheek and shaking my head around. Teacher: "No, I did not do this to him." -- grabbing my cheek and shaking my head around. "Are you certain you didn't do this to him?" "I am quite certain I didn't do this to him."
I was six years old. For a brief moment here, I was unable to recall the teacher's name, but it has returned to me: Mrs. Blattner. Having to deal with the principal on many more occasions through 8th grade, I will always remember what a worthless piece of shit Warren Smith was. I am quite certain they are both dead now, and the world is a better place for it.