Purging Demons: Skinning Cats (and the time I pantsed my gym teacher)

Last night I was jolted awake by a disturbing dream about skinning a live cat.  Since I’m the type that will save big hairy spiders rather than squish them, I was wondering aloud at the breakfast table why I would have such horrible images in my head.  My daughter reminded me, “I’ll bet that comes from your jerk PE teacher in junior high.”  She had heard the story before, or at least part of it.

I attended junior high school in the late 1970s.  Junior high was basically what we now call middle school, but with grades 7 through 9.  Title IX was new (1972) bringing equality for girls and boys in sports and physical education, but there were clearly plenty of male chauvinistic attitudes and behaviors ingrained in the “old school” teachers of the day. 

Reigning over my junior high was the gym teacher, Mr. T, a muscle bound yet pot-bellied has-been athlete who tried to extend his glory days by surrounding himself with young athletes.  From the polyester shorts and tube socks to the sports jersey and slightly greased back flat-top hairdo, he was a type.

When not coaching football or barking out directions to a PE class, he could be seen sauntering up and down the hallway flanked by a couple of broad-shouldered ninth grade boys who shadowed him like bodyguards or henchmen.  There would often be a uniformed cheerleader close behind to complete his hallway posse.  Proximity meant popularity.  He favored the football players and humiliated the scrawny, but always with humor.  Most kids wanted to be on his good side so readily joined in his banter, no matter how demeaning.

It was considered a compliment to the girls if he flirted with you — yes, FLIRTED with your 12-, 13- or 14- year-old self.  The boys watched and learned.  They yearned to be one of his side-kicks.  He was their hero.  He was, on the surface, well-liked.  If he teased you in class, or mentioned the short length of your skirt, your unwritten popularity score would climb.

One day during passing time I entered the gym, crossing the striped shiny floor to get to the girls locker room.  There Mr T was, surrounded by the usual chuckling adolescent male primates…I mean classmates.  He muttered something to them and then hollered, “Hey Stone!  Get over here and hold this for me!”  The boys guffawed in anticipation, each trying to out-laugh the other to gain the favor of their middle-aged hero.  I entered their circle and the teacher put my hands on a preserved, dead, pregnant cat.  “Here, hold this cat while I skin it for my biology class,”  he said loudly enough for everyone in the gym to hear.  He only kept me there long enough to watch my skin turn green and tears fill my eyes.  Long enough to get a good laugh out of his groupies and send me on my way. This “joke” traumatized my pubescent self, and was a perfect example of his use of degrading humor to hold power over us.

In my ninth grade year Mr. T started a game with myself and a few of my girl friends.  During PE he would sneak up behind one of us and give a light tug on the corner of our shorts to make us jump - a pretend attempt at “pantsing”.  We would gasp and laugh, and in return would tug on his shorts when his back was turned. Shorts never came down more than an inch or so, but we would yank ‘em up fast in a game of tit-for-tat. 

One day there was a murmur of commotion at one end of the hall as our FIRST crap-food vending machine was being installed in the entryway to the school.  A crowd of awkward teens and tweens were admiring the shiny new machine while Mr T stood in the back, arms folded across his puffed-out chest - trying to make it more prominent than his ample belly, with the usual football player poised on each side.

My friends and I approached from behind to try to see what was so exciting.  What we saw was our opportunity.  There he was.  His back to us.  The usual polyester shorts.  The three of us decided to play the game, this time with ALL THREE of us tugging at once.  We tiptoed up so as to not alert the boy henchmen of our approach.  One, two, three….TUG x 3!  Three tugs - all at once.  As I bent over, the next thing I saw, the only thing I could see, were two pale, round, fleshy cheeks speckled with black wiry hairs and a greyish-white jock strap.  We jumped back and squealed, frozen in shock.  That is, until Mr. T, one hand clutching his shorts and pointing with the other, yelled, “TO THE OFFICE!  THE THREE OF YOU!”

We sat all alone, D, K and I, in the small conference room awaiting our punishment.  Visions of angry, disappointed parents, school suspensions and at least a swat or two (yes, there was a paddle in the office) filled our anxious thoughts.  Mr. T finally came in, still red in the face (from anger? or embarrassment?),  probably after he made sure that NOBODY saw what happened except maybe his young goons. He sat across from us in the big bad principal’s chair and blew out a frustrated sigh.  He did his best to scare the crap out of us (heck, we were already terrified) but we soon figured out that this incident would be kept a secret.  He didn’t come out and say so, but we figured out that if he told our parents or the principal, he would have to explain himself.  He would have to tell how this inappropriate game came about and he was at least smart enough to steer clear of that sh*t show.  We were sworn to secrecy in order to avoid punishment.

This all happened so long ago that I’m not quite sure which of these events took place first.  In my memory the cat skinning came first and I got him back with the pantsing.  But the reality is probably the reverse - the cat-skinning was perhaps his revenge.

Either way, this is all in the past and I’m happy to send it back there.  Maybe Mr. T was less evil in reality than how he lives in my memories and more a victim of the times, a product of a chauvinistic generation. I’m just glad that my daughters are flabbergasted by these stories. Happy that they cannot even imagine such a scenario in their schools. 

Now that I’ve written about this demon of middle school, I will consider it purged. The images will no longer haunt my dreams.  I shall take a deep breath and blow them away!  Good riddance, Mr T.