In parte une (I don’t speak French, I’m not going to pretend any longer. My grandmother and I had some fake French food the other day and throughout the meal she regaled me with her extensive linguistic arts. Dear World, Generation Y has failed you yet again. We’re generally poorer than you, dumber than you and less technically savvy on many, many levels because we never had to go to war and in turn have dismal work ethic. You’re going to have to deal with this. Love, The Losers You Created: Y), I gave you a brief summary of Ms. Patti Cisewski, my horrible, awful, horrible 6th grade teacher who I hated, still hate, and will continue hating until I lay waiting for death, gasping for my final breath of toxic death air in the year 2063. I’m not a real hater of people, but this one person gave me no reason to like her, find her endearing and she actually made me a worse person by serving as a prime example.
A list of specific things that pissed me off about my 6th grade teacher, Ms. Patti Cisewski, who still works in the Washington County Public School System in Minnesota. Find her. Hate her with me. Drink the hatorade.
She encouraged, and noticeably preferred, students to call her ‘Queen Cisewski’ – who does this seriously? She even rewarded my buddy, Davarrah (my spell check does NOT recognize this name…hope you’re making it in life, buddy...), once with a kitkat – my most favorite candy bar in the known universe – for calling her by this ridiculous name.
I’m not a math and science wizard…in fact, all I learned in 10th grade geometry is something about how a crow flies, but then when I tell people who took geometry (and passed) about it none of them seem to know what I’m talking about. So I guess I didn’t learn anything. We got to make weird multi-faceted orb fractal things and hang them from our class’ ceiling though. Kind of cool. Any way…the 6th grade teachers all handled different subjects aside from the basics. Ms Cho-CHESS-Q (this is how my dad pronounced her name on purpose because he also hated her) taught science. We did some hypothesis paper thing and, no shit, she gave me an F+ . What the fuck is all that noise? So I failed,…but really well!?!? Even at the age of 11, I was already developing a strong bullshit detector and it was beeping motherfucking hard on this one.
I went on a winter skiing retreat, with my friends buff-aaaay and muff-aaaay and Chadwick. Just kidding. About the names.
Yes, Maria Momez can be quoted saying she went on a skiing retreat, Wolf Ridge(?), for a week with my class. For the poor souls that were not lucky enough to go with, they had to stay behind and spend 5 more days of their lives than I did with ChoCHESSQ. Bummer. But maybe Shmara Schmidt (name changed like in Dragnet) shouldn’t have gone with. She got her first period on that trip and everybody new she was a woman upon her return to school. Haha god that sucks. Not as much as mine. Haha…will be saved for another self deprecating day. While we were gone, Queen Bitch told everyone how happy she was because the class was noticeably quiet without Davarrah, Anthony (my not then boyfriend - fuck you and your fake lifesavers) and me.
She wasn’t my home teacher, but Ms. Something sort of Hispanicy sounding…gave me a warning thing because I was stretching my hand all complicated like while it was cramped. She decided I must have been throwing gang signs to all my homies in class – “Meet me by the old oak tree at 3:00; we’re going to kill ChoChessQ, Ese. Oh, and where is Nigeria located, Mang?” I ended up getting all these little dings for no good reason from both Hispanic Geography teacher and my own and at the end of each week would have to have my parents sign an acknowledgement of my blunders, then shamefully returning it to the sociopaths receiving immense satisfaction in embarrassing children. I found a way around this by starting an autograph book! I first got my parents’ signatures and that was all. So then I would trace over their names so that they’d never have to deal with the form again because I was being helpful!!! I think it worked for about 2 or 3 weeks. And then I got my ass whooped by my dad shortly after its discovery. His signature is worthless to me. Why didn’t you have me during Generation X? I’d be so much more capable...and probably wouldn't have gotten caught.
Okay, so many, many more things happened and I eventually broke down and told my parents I was having issues with my teacher, because they became increasingly concerned with all my warning dings, who then subsequently told the principal and they all had one big sit down altogether. Over the next few days I felt like Ms. Cisewski was nicer and pleasant and thoughtful, but it didn’t last. Obviously. Because this blog isn’t done. Not really my style. Life hates me. It’s awesome. She eventually went back to her wildebeest ways and I tolerated it since the end of the school year was peeking up over the horizon.
I extra lucked out because my family was going on vacation in advance of school’s end so I would miss another torturous week with her. Yes yes yes yes! We got our yearbooks the day before I left for vacation. In my peers’ books, I'm pretty certain that I wrote something horrible next to each of Ms. Cisewski’s pictures. One statement comes to mind: ‘Rejoice, the evil bitch has died and gone to hell.’ Quite poetic for an 11 year old. I told you I was sort of smart… Apparently not so.
When we got back from our trip 3 weeks later, I was really excited to go to the post office and pick up my report card. Despite my stupid fucking F+, I was hoping for some good grades, which in turn I was hoping to use as leverage for getting a new pair of Girbaud jeans or Pumas or an Esprit bag or something to make me noticeably cool when I got to junior high. This did not happen. I opened the manila envelope thang and notice a couple photocopies of my year book and dismissed them since I was so hell bent on finding my report card. We get home and I dink around getting settled back into our house feeling really good about my grades when all of a sudden my dad yells in his scary voice (All dad’s have a scary voice. It’s impact can range depending on how soft your dad was, but my dad’s scary voice ESPECIALLY coupled with the evil eye (oh my god oh my god) was something that terrified me more than the present thought of waking up at 3am and Satan devouring my soul, which really scares the shit out of me and my buddy, M2. We talk about it often and I don’t know why because it really psyches the shit out of us. We just talked about it yesterday, too. Why am I mentioning it now? Evil. Scary!) “Maria, get your ass down here”. I didn’t need to see him to know shit was going down. Apparently ChoCHESSQ had seen what I wrote in the books and made a copy of my best, dumb friend Darcy’s yearbook and sent the copies with my grades. What a whoreface! I knew it would suck to have both Darcy and Patti in the same room as me. My mom knows nothing! Her signature is also useless.
So I got the shit beaten out of me. Yayyyyy…”Generation X would have never done that!”
In 7th grade, I was able to blend in with a whole new group of sophisticated, amazing kids. 7th grade was probably one of my most favorite years of school in that so many things happened that I associate with the transition from childhood to adulthood. Or in the case of Michaela Cisewski, baby trollhood to adult, talking wildebeesthood. 7th grade was the time I got to finally meet Michaela, who I knew little about, though she knew much about me, since her mom had definitely shared our strained past with the beastly shit kicking creature known as her 'daughter'. I will save that for a totally different blog. So you’ll have to come back and see what life was like at Oltman Junior High. I learn that my dad was called as slightly more accurate racial slur, my aunt and I have the same taste in dolls, I have classes with *gasp* asian kids and that I wasn't cool in 3rd grade. I really thought I was.
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