Mrs. Lillian Carroll and The Bitch Slap That Changed Everything

The Set Up
I was a bit of an uppity kid when I was in the fourth grade. Well, I'd like to think I was. Truth is I was kid with a serious booger problem who didn't know that the sleeves on his uniform blazer were not hankies. I was a very active kid into all sorts of sports and my favorite time of day was the school yard time we used to get before school started and during lunch recess. I was what most teachers would label today as having a touch of ADD.

That school year of 1972-73, Mrs. Lillian Carroll was my teacher. This was our class's second tour of duty with this Cuban comadre (a Spanish word loosely synonymous with the French salutation for a married or older womam -- Madame) who married a gringito, moved to Woodside and spawned some really good looking kids. We had Mrs. Carroll as our second grade teacher, too, but my vague recollection of that stint was that she was alot nicer the first time around.

I'll say this for the woman. She had a breaking point. But despite the fact that corporal punishment in Catholic schools was standard operating procedure for dealing with uppities like me, she never hit me or any of my classmates for getting out of line. Oh no. She had two of the greatest weapons a teacher could ever have in the days before Prozac -- a Rolodex with our parent's work numbers and the ability to speak fluent Spanish.

The Players
You've already met Mrs. Carroll, but I don't think I've ever spoken of my mother in this blog and it's high time I did. She is a saint. She bore my father seven children, six of them boys, and still managed to hold down a full time job and get dinner ready and help with homework. We were poor growing up in our household, but we were rarely in want of much, particularly love.

But as many of the bloggers I converse with who are parents can attest, we become very different people when our kids get uppity. I know I do and I know my mother did too.

If you looked at them Mrs. Carroll and my mom together, you could swear that they were sisters. They were short, petitie, hispanic women possessed of a great patience, a long memory for indiscretions, and an indominable force of will. They even pronounced my full, three word name in slow shrill tones when they were angry with me. And, like I said, they both spoke spanish, and in that same Caribbean island dialect so prevalent in Loisaida. We didn't take el autobús to school, we took la guagua!!!!!

Again, I never saw Mrs. Carroll ever strike anyone, let alone her students, but Mom on the other hand possessed one of the greatest right hands ever given a female pugilist. In her heyday, she probably would have knocked Layla Ali on her ass. She could slap teeth from your mouth if she wanted to. No kidding.

The Story
One day in the Spring of 1973, the weather was warm, the windows of our ancient building were widen open, and having no desire to sit in a classroom, I, young master Spartacus decided to get uppity. This wasn't you're normal stay-after-school class of uppity. Oh no. I decided to go for broke. I wanted to be the new Richard Oliver whose nick name was Wally, but should have been trouble. Wally was a bully and a jokester all wrapped into one evil package. I hated the kid's guts at times, but envied the brashness of his uppitiness and thought I could top him.

Mrs. Carroll: Spartacus, please take your seat.

Me: And what if I don't?

Class: Oooooooohhhhhh.

MC: (rolling her eyes) Mr. Spartacus, I do not have time for thees. Please take your seat so that we can get on with this lesson.

Me: And what if I don't? What if I just want to stand?

MC: Don't test me. I will make you stay after class.

The Class: Ooooooooohhhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Okay. The I'll stay.

MC: Just for that you get detention. Now sit down.

Me: No.

MC: That's two detentions. Please sit down. (Her voice now agitated).

Me: NO.

MC: Okay, have it your way.

Mrs. Carroll walked to the adjoining room where she asked Mrs. Hurd, the 3rd grade teacher to keep an eye on us. Little did I know that she was making her way to the principal's office to call my Mom. I was completely unaware of this development, nor had I anticipated it. Most 4th graders are really stupid that way and I was giddy from the class's adulation for having stood up to Mrs. Carroll. Or was it adulation? Maybe they were staring at me for the idiot that I really was. I would soon find out.

About 2 minutes later. Mrs. Carroll returned and completely ignored my presence and began her lesson. About 1o minutes later there was my Mom hanging outside the classroom door standing in her white nurse's aid uniform. She rushed over from her job working in the OB-GYN clinic at Gouveneur Hospital on Madison Street to take care of business. Mrs. Carroll excused herself and stepped out of the class and spoke to my Mom in that fluent Spanish of hers. In another 2 minutes, I was standing before the court of inquiry that was my mother and Mrs. Carroll. Lillian tried to recuse herself from the scene but my mother would hear nothing of it.

(This dialog was all in Spanish - the preferred language of really angry hispanic mothers)

Mom: (To MC) Stay. Please. I insist. (To Me) Son, is this true? Were you acting up in class to your teacher?

Me: Ummmmm. Ahhhhhh...

Before the lame excuse could form in my glottal muscles, that mighty right hand of hers, in the form of an open palm "bitch" slap cut right across my left cheek. Not once. Not twice. But several well-placed bitch slaps caught me square on the jaw.


Down goes Spartacus! Down goes Spartacus!


Mom: How dare you disrespect you teacher like that. Who do you think you are? Your father's going to hear about this. We don't disrespect our elders in this family. I taught you better than that. I'm so ashamed and you should be, too.

Me: (Sobbing) Please Mom, don't tell Dad. (Sob) I'm sorry. I won't do it again. (Sob) Mrs. Carroll, I'm really sorry. (Sob)

Mom: (To Mrs. Carroll) Take him back to class. If he acts up again, call me, and I'll handle him. I'm so sorry he troubled you.

Mrs. Carroll: (Barely surpressing a shit eating grin) Thank you for stopping by Mrs. Spartacus. I am grateful.

As I walked into class there was an audible gasp at the sight of my very red cheek. One my best friends swore he saw finger marks! The gasp soon turned to snickering, which a day later turned into outright mockery and laughter. They knew what the fates had in store for me. They just wanted to see the train wreck that was about to happen. They got their money's worth.

Richard Oliver, suprisingly, was quite empathetic and understanding. A veteran of several bitch slaps himself, he put his arm around my shoulder as if to say "Welcome to the club, kid." I looked at him with eyes that said, "thanks but no thanks." Clearly, the memory of my mother's bitch slap weighed heavily on my mind and I have never forgotten it.

Epilogue
There were other bitch slaps in my future, many occurred long after I was out of grade school and entered the dreaded teen years; the age where uppitiness is pandemic. But one happened in Christmas 1973. My Titi (aunt) Elsie (my mother's sister) came bearing gifts for her beloved sobrina y sobrinos. My gift was a plain, white, short-sleeved school shirt. My reaction was priceless.

Me: A shirt! I don't want a shirt!

Slap! Slap! Slap!
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Slap! Slap! Slap!

Down goes Spartacus! Down goes Spartacus!