The Headmaster
I'll get it off my chest nice and early. You know the kid in class who always turned up early to lessons, handed homework in on time and showed an interest in what he was taught? I was one of those guys. Hell, I still am and I'm comfortable with my existence.

As you can imagine, I was bullied from the ages of 7 to 17, which I took in my stride. There weren't many people in my life who supported me through those dark years; my father was abusive and my mother would quickly change the subject to how my complaining was making her want to leave home. The only two people I could confide in were my doctor (a thoroughly caring guy who has guided me through several cases of depression), and the headmaster of my primary school, Mr. Dodds.

He was a modern day Churchill, a stout ex-squaddie who would address every lass as 'darling' and start any conversation with a handshake. To me, he was the father figure I'd always wanted, and I idolised the man. I got a lot of stick for it from minds too feeble to grasp the concept of respect.

And then one day my mind just snapped. It was a damp spring day in 1996, and I was a 9 year old Foxy who had spent the morning frustratingly staring at cards of dots and told to recall the number I saw. I didn't see anything. I saw dots. Lots of little brown dots. After a lot of 'are you sure you can't see anything?'s from the man in the suit, I was diagnosed as colourblind and returned to class with a letter. Handing it over to my teacher, she read it aloud to the class, explaining that as I was now 'too retarded to even see properly', she would no longer address me as a member of this school. I did what every 9 year old would do in that case; I cried in front of a class of 30 laughing children. I ran from the room, slunk in the shadows in the playground and prayed for the day to end.

*THUMP*

Next thing I know, I'm on the floor. I'm bleeding from the back of my head. Maybe this is my punishment for being retarded. Pulled up by my hair, I'm held against the wall while the brains of the operation does a number on my ribs.

'You're a retard Foxy and we all hate you. Your mum hates you. Your dad hates you. Even Dodds hates you.'

And then I lost control. A man who embraces the principles of respect and understanding has no room for hate in his life, and his name would not be spoken in vain. That was the one moment of my life where, for several beautiful minutes, I woke up. There was no ripping of shirts as I mutated into a 10ft behemoth of brutality, I simply lost all reasoned thought. Shaking off my oppressors, I grabbed the closest one I could and threw him to the floor. Grabbing his head, I thrusted it up and down against the drain cover. Up and down. Over and over. Again and again. My hands were stained with shards of milk teeth and blood when I was finally pulled off the now unconcious body and I was thrown into the headmaster's office.

I was in the shit now.

Dodds braced into the room, sat down on his upholstered chair, and extended his arm. I expected a belt across he head or two, just like back home. Just like I deserved for making a student leave school in an ambulance. I must've stared at his palm long enough to count the hairs on his knuckles. It silently hung in the air, waiting for me to react.

'Foxy, you're one of the few people in this establishment who is going to do something with his life, and there will always be people trying to stop you. What you did today I spent every day for the last 2 years hoping you'd get the nerve to do. Well done at growing some balls finally. Now get back to class'

I shook his hand and left.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:51, 17 replies)

awesome!
woo
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:56, closed)

clicky
for all of it, espeshilly

"too retarded to even see properly"


Bravo!!
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:57, closed)

Children really are shits
Did you get less or more grief after fighting back?
( monkeybananaraffle, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:58, closed)

Less
For about a fortnight. C'est la vie.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:02, closed)

WOW

(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:58, closed)

Well done.
I can sympathize, as I was one of the unpopular ones myself. Especially good of Dodds to react as he did.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:13, closed)

an old school of mine had a headmaster called Mr Dodds
who fits this description.

where was it?
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:16, closed)

A land of lore, regret, shame and council estates
Aylesbury.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:20, closed)

interesting
I was born and half-raised in High Wycombe so not that far away.

Might I ask when?

stupid thing is, I can't actually remember which school it was that had Mr Dodds as headmaster!
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:27, closed)

Your teacher
said you were too retarded?

Name names dammit! teachers like that are what give the profession a bad name!
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:44, closed)

Ah Yes...
Ms Kenderick was her name. Being 60 years old and still a 'miss' was a close enough sign of her personality. She would lift her head and stare down her nose at you through narrow glasses in disgust should you lift your hand to ask questions. Her world was law, and there was no room for criticism in her classroom. Her speciality was teaching Religious Education, and those who turned up for her after school Bible classes, regardless of achievement, were the only people to get 'A's throughout her rule. 'Non-Christians', she'd proclaim 'Can not be tolerated in white British society.'

When she heard I'd aced my 11+ paper to get into the one good school in the area, she hid my application in her desk until I missed the handing in period, and narrowly escaped a future on the Jobseeker's Allowance as a result.

She was an evil piece of work.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:09, closed)

She'd love me
Wonder how she'd react to me fitting in to "white British society"?? And your headmaster sounds beyond awesome, wish he was the head at my old school. *sigh*

Great story with a great ending, well deserved click young man.
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 17:03, closed)

Mr Dodds
We salute you.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 18:45, closed)

Your post
Generates an odd combination of emotions- rage, and glowing admiration.

I have been lucky in my life to have been surrounded by mostly decent human beings- your former teacher deserves to burn in the worst circle of Hell for what she did and tried to do.

As for your headmaster, fair play to him, and fair play to you.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 1:47, closed)

Wow
Respect.

I too am colour blind; I remeber at priiamry school basically getting a bollocking cos I couldnt see the numbers. Yeah, I chose to be colour blind you fuckin' cunthorse.
(kitescreech still here, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 22:42, closed)

Mr Dobbs
i think i love the man. a real mans man.
(Mong goose, Sun 1 Feb 2009, 1:46, closed)

Big clicks from me
I was in a not dissimilar situation at the age of 10, although nothing so dramatic. As one of the "good guys" I repeatedly got into scrapes in the playground, sometimes reacting to taunting but not enough to actually harm anyone else (because frankly I don't like hurting people), meaning I would take the brunt of it. In retrospect I guess I was being bullied, although I didn't see it that way at the time.

One day I remember my dad came into school in the afternoon to let me know some good news (I'd passed the entrance exam for my secondary school). He saw that, once again, my trousers were filthy and torn slightly, so I explained that, once again, I'd been in a scrape at lunchtime with a boy I shall call Adam (for that was his name). Now as my dad was the local vicar, he was on the board of school governors and went off to have a word with the headmaster. To his eternal credit, the head's response was that I should give as good as I get in the playground next time and not worry about the consequences.

So the next day, having being appraised of this advice by my dad the previous evening - and probably also in the knowledge that I would only be spending a few more months at the same school as him - I did indeed give Adam as good as I got. I didn't hurt him badly at all, but it was enough to make sure he didn't try it on again for the rest of my time there.

Yay for good headmasters.
(Armour Dillow, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 17:20, closed)