Yep, that's what we used to call her. Sixth through eighth grades. Her real name was Mrs. X, or something. I'm not going to share her real name, which I do remember, not out of any courtesy for her, but because Basketball Head is more ridiculous. She was mean. I don't remember anything specific she did that was mean....wait, that also is a lie. I remember a good few. I came to her once with intense distress over a personal situation having to do with my parents, who were divorcing, and she was flip and made me feel like a retard. My best friend was verbally abused by her; I would go so far as to say emotionally manipulated by her. Basketball Head was maybe a bit sick. By the way, we called her Basketball Head because of her hair. It was short and fuzzy, wiry-curly, so thin you could easily see her scalp, and colored something weird and pale and nondescript. Why this reminded us of a basketball is a mystery, but look, we were twelve.
My niece went to the same school twenty-some years later, and fortunately B.H. had long retired. What made this woman want to be a guidance counselor is not only obvious, it's frightening: she enjoyed the privilege of being a jerk to easy prey. Now that I'm a mother and have a child in school, I'm suddenly remembering stuff long buried in the old coffers. I realize we're WAAAAAAY too early in the game to worry about such things, and I also realize that my kid goes to a school that so far we could not be happier with, but facts and logic have never stopped my anxiety disorder yet, and they're certainly not about to when it comes to my kids.
I had one small victory with Basketball Head, in 8th grade when we all had to fill out some career survey thing and then have our results evaluated in a private consult with her. My profile showed that I should have become either a meteorologist or a babysitter for brain-injured pigs. No, really....I have no idea what it said. Too long ago. What I do remember is that when B.H. asked me what I thought I might want to do, I told her I wanted to be a philanthropist. I had recently learned what that word meant, and I thought it was hilariously funny - to be a philanthropist you had to have a shitload of money, right? Isn't that great as a career choice, then? I mean, HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!
....Tumbleweeds. Among her many crimes, B.H. had no sense of humor. I have since told that joke to probably too many people over the years (.."ya know what I always wanted to be growing up? A philanthropist! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!) It's kind of like when I crack wise at the doctor's office, which I like to do because dammit, going to the doctor is stressful - rarely have I gotten the response I wanted. Tough crowd, these "professionals" with "credentials." But that's another post.
This story is the perfect illustration of the major flaw in your extreme left-wing vision for American Society, in your "Utopia" the person who chooses to be the guidance counselor is still going to be an asshole, speaking of assholes, who is going to be the Proctologist?
ReplyDeleteWell, you know the old saying: "Whether you be one for a living, or see one for a living, assholes are the key to wealth in America."
ReplyDeleteBy the way there are no assholes in Utopia. That's why it's called Utopia. No one shits in Utopia, either. Because there are no assholes.