I feel bad that the last 6 consecutive entries were about me whining over how sick I am, so I thought I’d put something that may be of more interest out there. An early lesson about walking in someone’s shoes. Or something like that.

In 5th grade, our school put on a Christmas production that involved a choir, some acting, some instrument playing. I think it was a musical or a play about a poor musician who, through divine inspiration, wrote some great Christmas music and made the king or Bishop or someone happy, thereby saving himself from starvation. All our chorus music was in Latin. Since I was sort of the student pianist prodigy (I’m not saying I deserved the reputation), I was pulled out of Honors Chorus for the play to do the keyboarding part of the production. My 5th grade teacher, Mrs. C, was doing much of the direction and musical arrangement.

The pieces were difficult, I just remember something about playing the part of a donkey on the keyboard which was put on an “oboe” setting. I struggled through many rehearsals, but I attended them all.

The day of the concert came. In class, we were working on some assignment quietly when I noticed a gnawing discomfort in my stomach. I ignored it for awhile, but finally decided to ask to see the nurse. I walked up to Mrs. C, who was sitting at a desk at the front of the class, writing something. I waited to be acknowledged. She didn’t look up. Finally, I said in a small voice, “Mrs. C?” She ignored me. I waited again. “Mrs. C?” Nothing. I just started talking. “I don’t feel too good. My stomach hurts. Can I go see the nurse?” She didn’t look up. “Mrs. C?”

Finally, she looked up at me angrily. I don’t remember what she started off saying because I didn’t understand her, and was only aware that the sharpness of her voice caused other students close to the front of the room to look up in surprise. I finally caught on when she was saying, “…and all of us have been practicing our parts for all of these weeks, and now you’re telling us you can’t do the part! Now that’s not very fair to me or to any of the other kids, now, is it?!” I took a step back. “It’s NOT fair, is it?” she insisted. I obediently shook my head and whispered, “No.” Mrs. C gave a huff of frustration and looked back down at her work on her desk, signaling me that this conversation was now over. I went back to my desk, bewildered.

I went home after school and told my mom my confusion. She didn’t know what I was talking about, and made me attend the concert that night anyway. I saw that Mrs. C was doing the keyboarding part, looking angry and tense. I took my place with the choir and sang the part I’d always sung before I was assigned the keyboarding part. I wondered if Mrs. C was wondering why I was there since she believed I’d said I wouldn’t be attending, but she never met my eyes.

Some time later, my mother told me a secret she’d either heard on the news or through her work with a County child abuse agency. “Remember when your teacher snapped at you and you didn’t know why? Don’t tell anyone in school because no one is supposed to know this, but her husband is a coach at the high school, and he was caught in his car doing things with a male student of his. It happened around the time she yelled at you. So she’s going through some problems at home, just don’t let it bother you and understand that people sometimes have their own difficulties that you may not be aware of.”

I still don’t like her.