When I was in sixth grade I skipped more than a month of school. I wasn’t sick, but I pretended to be. For weeks I would wake to the same song on the radio.  Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark.” Even now, forty-one years later, hearing it makes me queasy.

My mom would check on me each morning and I’d feign agonizing stomach pain. First I saw my pediatrician, and when he couldn’t find anything wrong, I went to a gastroenterologist. I had a stomach study where I was forced to drink nasty, chalky liquid. When the barium test came up inconclusive, my folks finally sought assistance from a psychologist, who declared I had “school sickness.” Code language for “she doesn’t want to go to school.” Finally, my parents FORCED ME TO GO. They pulled me out of the bathroom where I was hiding, carried me down to the car, and dragged me into my sixth grade classroom. What I didn’t tell anyone at the time, my parents included, was the reason I didn’t want to go to school was because my teacher was a grade A pervert.

Mr. K would sit at his desk at the front of the class, drinking a two liter of Pepsi. His cracked, nicotine hands squeezed the plastic as he drew long pulls, tauntingly. None of us could drink in class, of course, let alone enjoy a soda. Are you kidding? We might have had a water fountain in the back of the room, near the boys and girls bathrooms, but I can’t remember. What I cannot forget is the bathroom itself, the girls room, which Mr. K would frequently enter when we were doing our business. He’d wander in without warning, peering through the cracks in the stalls as we sat, confused, unsure what to do. Was this normal? Was it okay? I had no idea. My twelve-year old self was a sheltered, trusting soul, one taught to respect her elders, to do what I was told, to be compliant, acquiescent, polite. My southern mother had ingrained in me the notion that I should in all situations be as cordial, attractive, as helpful as possible. I was not raised to rock the fucking boat. Because if I had been, I would have started screaming, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, SIR? I would have pointed out what was going on, or at the very least I would have told my parents.

Instead, I simply kept quiet. I would watch Mr. K stand at the chalkboard each day, with a hand down his pants. It would move in a rhythmic fashion. I didn’t know what masturbation was then, and can only speculate now that’s what was going on. At that time, I just thought he must be itchy. The constant hand-in-the-pants scratching seemed disgusting, of course. My classmates all talked about it, Mr. K’s “scratching.” We were a class of eleven and twelve year olds from the suburbs. Maybe some of us knew what he was doing? But I sure didn’t. I just knew it grossed me out. As much as when he would suck meaningfully on the ends of his eyeglasses, running the earpieces through his beard, sniffing them and his fingers.

Mr. K arranged our desks in a circular fashion, a big loop facing his desk in the front, and he would walk behind us, studying each student in turn. The girls all received extra attention. He would peer over our shoulders, leaning low to whisper in our ears. I recall Mr. K hovering behind my chair one day, leaning over to stroke and massage my thin shoulders, the smell of cigarettes lingering on my top when he was done. I was wearing a pair of green overalls that day, a gift from my mom, an outfit I loved. He kept adjusting the straps, moving them to peer down the front, at my chest. I was flat as a board at the time, a prepubescent child, and still he looked. I remember the feel of his fingertips pressing into my flesh, searching. He asked me, “Are you wearing a bra yet?” I don’t recall answering. He would frequently ask all of the girls about our menstrual cycles. Had we gotten our periods? I knew this was not something any other man, including my own father, had asked me, ever. Even my male pediatrician didn’t seem all that interested in what was going on down there. Some of the girls seemed flattered by Mr. K’s special attention. One of my friends would laugh and joke with him, even as she squirmed under his overly friendly hands.

All of the girls made comments to each other about this. The extracurricular activities going on in the classroom. But to my knowledge not one of us said a word to anyone else. Not to a parent, not to an adult, not to another teacher, counselor, or school administrator. So Mr. K remained. But at some point in the spring, something inside me must have taken over. Some part of my psyche that my twelve-year old self didn’t even understand. A self preservation mechanism. I would certainly wake feeling nauseous, that wasn’t made up. The idea of going to school became more and more dreadful with the days. I loved my friends. I loved learning. I enjoyed being a sixth grader, the chief pickles of our elementary. But some part of me knew not to go. It wasn’t a calculated decision, certainly. I was smart, but I wasn’t that savvy. But my spirit said no. Stay home. Stay safe. Don’t go.

Our sixth grade class trip to New York City took place a day or two after I returned to school. I was thrilled to go on that exciting adventure, and I still have photos from the visit, posed with friends. Mr. K no where in sight. And then, POOF, it was done. The school year over. I don’t recall a big graduation ceremony, or anything like that, it just didn’t happen like that when we were kids. We got moved to middle school, and that was that. Mr. K and his hands, left behind.

I didn’t tell my parents about this until I was almost 40. The reason why I hadn’t gone to school. Why each morning for over a month, I begged to stay home. The reason why I had to have a barium test at the hospital where my dad worked. Why they had to take me to a child psychologist, who I couldn’t even be truthful with either. My mom was horrified when I told her. She asked why I didn’t say something?! Because I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. To tell them that I had a weird teacher who creeped me the hell out, that wasn’t something I was raised to say, to explain, to admit. It was secret.

And that is how kids get abused.

I was a lucky one. I never asked any of my girlfriends or classmates at that time if Mr. K had ever done anything more to them. I hope with all my heart he did not. But he should never have been allowed to be our teacher. To have access to a classroom of young people that he could grope or ogle. I have tried looking him up, but to no avail. I kind of hope he is gone at this point, for all our sakes.