A brief bout of insanity

Note: This story was originally meant to be published on Dec. 17, however, in light of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I decided to postpone it. The following story involves my old elementary school and a time I flew off the handle. It didn't seem appropriate at the time. I present it now, however, as I originally intended.

 

4^th grade was a transitional time for me. I had a new school, it was my second year living in the South Bay with my mother and new stepfather, and I my personality was fluctuating. Gone was the bully who terrorized kids in the schoolyard. Professional counseling was starting to turn me into a pushover, but I still wasn’t the nerdy introvert of today.

The word that best describes my 4^th grade teacher would be “dictator.” She was a tyrant unlike any I had yet encountered. A blond giantess from South Africa, she was quick to dole out punishment for the slightest rule-breaking.

She did, however, allow one indulgence in the classroom. During any breaks or recesses, kids were allowed to listen to music on a boombox she kept in the room. 

This one gift for my classmates proved to be the ultimate torture for me.

For whatever reason, the girls in our class dominated that boombox. Us boys just didn’t care enough to fight the girls for control of the music, so they always raced to it and played what they wanted. It was a first come, first serve process – and the same girls always rushed to be first.

This means I got a healthy dose of exposure to Radio Disney. Enough so that, for a time, I was even brainwashed into thinking it was a good radio station and became a regular listener for a couple years.

Needless to say, I spent a lot of time listening to *NSYNC and Backstreet Boys during this time. But worse than those One Direction forerunners (shout-out to my sister, the biggest One Direction fan in the world) was one artist the girls in my class went nuts for. A singer whose music I had to listen to day-in and day-out against my will.

Britney Spears.

This was the height of Britney-mania. And I was caught right in the middle.

Imagine you are a young boy or girl – so sweet and innocent, hardly a care in the world, very impressionable age – and every day (or every weekday anyway) you were forced to listen to the same songs over and over and over and over again. Songs you didn’t particularly like or dislike, but had no say in whether or not you got to listen to them or not. 

“You Drive Me Crazy,” “Oops! I Did It Again,” and “…Baby One More Time.” Every day, multiple times per day. And we rarely heard anything other than those three songs! One of the girls in my class owned a CD or two, and it was those same songs that were played over and over again. There they were, like clockwork. Sometimes I could go outside and avoid it, like during lunch break, but sometimes I couldn’t. Sometimes I was trapped in my own personal Hell.

I longed for a permanent end to my suffering. I dreamed of taking a club and smashing that boombox to pieces. I went from “This music is quite catchy” to “I LOATHE BRITNEY SPEARS!!!!” 

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had enough.

The exact date escapes me, but it must have been April or May. I remember the warm sun shining brightly, birds singing, children laughing (OK, given my teacher that last one might be an exaggeration). It was the end of the school day. I always had to stick around for after-school. As soon as that final bell rang, a gaggle of girls ran for the boombox, and before the first chord of Spears song could play … I snapped.

I don’t remember exactly what happened. Just that there was suddenly a lot of yelling and crying. All coming from me. I remember the entire room stopped, as if time itself had slowed, and everyone looking at me – staring wide-eyed. 

In summary, I was officially filing my complaint against the musical choices of certain classmates who unfairly monopolized the airwaves of our mutually shared classroom and, what was supposed to be, a mutually shared music playing device.

That was the point I was trying to make, anyway. I didn’t quite articulate it as such.

As I finished my rant I wiped the foam away from my mouth, felt the color return to my face, and noticed for the first time that my desk was now firmly lodged in the wall opposite of me. Everyone sitting around me had backed away and the whole room was still staring as my teacher finally gathered up the courage to walk up to me and ask if I wanted to step outside.

That was the nicest my 4^th grade teacher ever treated me. For the first time I detected a softness in her voice as she asked what was wrong. I started crying again as I more delicately explained I was tired of hearing nonstop Britney Spears every day I came to school. From that point on, she treated me with a great deal more care than her previous self had. 

Music in our classroom became a very rare thing. And on those rare occasions, there was more variety in who got to choose the music and what we listened to.

The event did earn me some unwelcomed attention. School officials quietly asked my parents if anything was wrong at home. They had the typical “He’s so quiet. We never expected something like this!” reaction usually saved for serial killers. 

Indeed, my therapist suggested there might be something wrong with me. He was ready to prescribe all kinds of fancy drugs and lengthier (i.e. more expensive) counseling sessions (I don’t know how he could have diagnosed me with anything. I hardly spoke to him, preferring to play with the toy soldiers in his office). 

My parents reacted by switching me to a therapist who worked at my school (she was nice, and kind of cute. She got me to open up more through snacks and games of checkers).

To this day I haven’t gone on any rampages and I don’t have a collection of dead animals and/or humans in my basement (and not just because I don’t have a basement). Poor self-esteem and rampant paranoia, sure, but no violent tendencies. 

Although to this day I maintain a seething dislike for the music of Britney Spears. Not the woman herself, just the method by which she makes her living. In Pavlovian fashion, the sound of a Spears song used to set me off – my face would turn red, fire would light in my eyes, smoke would pour from my ears and nostrils. 

But I’m better now; I’m a forgiving person. My Radio Disney days are far behind me. Shortly after the incident, I discovered the wonders of rock n’ roll. From the innovators such as Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry, to the poets like Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen, to the bands that carry on the tradition today like The Hold Steady and The Gaslight Anthem. 

That, more than any therapy, cured a soul made sick by pop music and Britney Spears.