Skip to main content

Mrs. Carver’s Kindergarten Class (Spring 2036 A.D.) (Louis Toliver, Jr)



            The young kids were chattering as Mrs. Carver sat at her desk preparing the morning English lesson. She flipped through the Modern Modernized English Teacher’s Manual. The section she browsed was called “Emotive Words and Phrases for Emotional Release.”
            “Alright, children. Today, we continue emotive words and phrases. As we discussed yesterday, there are certain words or phrases we can use to release emotion when we are frustrated.”
            Little Billy’s hand shot up quickly, eager to speak. “Ooooh, oooh, Mrs. Carver!”
            “Yes, Billy?”
            “Shit me!” Billy was proud of his statement. The rest of the kid’s started snickering and laughing. “Is that right?”
            “Not quite, Billy. Repeat after me class. Fuck you (she pointed to the class)! Fuck  me (she pointed to herself)! Fuck! Now, class. Your turn.”
            The class repeated in ensemble, “Fuck you (the children pointed to Mrs. Carver)! Fuck me (the children pointed to themselves)! Fuck!
            “Great class!” Mrs. Carver turned around to the dry erase board. She wrote the word SHIT on the board. “Now, SHIT is written in all caps and doesn’t every take a direct object. Simply just say, SHIT! The letters are emphasized. Jessica, why don’t you try?”
            Little Jessica looked around nervously. She wasn’t sure if she could pull it off right. “Shit?” she said with uncertainty. A few kids snickered.
            “Emphasize the letters, Jessica.”
            Jessica took a deep breath and closed her eyes, “SHIT!”
            “Everyone clap for Jessica,” Mrs. Carver said sternly. All the kid’s clapped and Jessica grew a larger smile, pleased.
            “Ooooh, oooh, Mrs. Carver!” Billy waved his hand in the air. It looked as if it was going to fly off.
            “Yes, Billy?”
            “My dad says that these used to be only bad words. He says it was when McDonald’s only served a billion burgers.”
            The kids all ooohed in curiosity. “It says over a trillion, now,” a voice was heard through the uproar.
            “Yes, Billy, your father is right.”
            Billy folded his arms proud of his father.
            “Can you say moist?” Little Rupert blurted out.
            Mrs. Carver came unhinged and pointed a corner in the room with a stool, “Rupert Michael McCoy! You get in the corner, right now!” Her hair frizzed as her forehead wrinkled. “You know very well that you can’t say that word!” Rupert dragged himself to the corner of the room and climbed on the stool.
            “Why?” little Emily asked out of curiosity.
            “Because it’s a gross word, Emily. Young ladies and gentlemen don’t use that word.” Mrs. Carver scratched her head. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes.” She turned around and was about to write another word on the dry erase board.
            “Moist,” a voice whispered, but Mrs. Carver heard it.
            “Who said that?”
            The whole kindergarten class was silent. Mrs. Carver couldn’t believe the upbringing of some of these kids. How could their parents allowed such filthy mouths?
At that moment Rupert urinated on himself and it dripped down the stool, “Mrs, Carver, I just pissed on myself.”
Mrs. Carver shook uncontrollably in anger while all the kids snickered and whispered. She was sure she heard moist again in the whispers.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd  meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.
Post a Comment
Read more

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...
1 comment
Read more

Lunatic (Lily Lechler - New Orleans, LA)

  “Lunacy” comes from the moon,  Who cycles through brilliance and darkness  Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed  Opposites not so well harnessed Who cycles through brilliance and darkness?  The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with  Opposites. Not so well harnessed As she thought, her brain gives reason the slip The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Her body, depressed, her thoughts manic. As she thought, her brain gave reason the slip  And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic. Her body depressed her thoughts. Manic  Lunacy comes from the moon And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic  Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed
Post a Comment
Read more