Belated Apologies to Miss Manson or The Raccoon Has Taken My Pineapple

For the first time in over a decade I am making an attempt at learning a new language. Well, this is a partial fabrication, I suppose, when you get right down to the bone of things. As you will discover, my last linguistically endeavor was more a force-fed jagged little rusty razor wrapped in barbwire then a active pursuit of self education. You see, my dedications to diction have always been firmly laced to my native tongue. Increasing my English vocabulary has been a hobby since my pre-teen years with the discovery of novels that didn’t have the words "Choose Your Own Adventure" in the title. I would latch onto certain words and chew them, savor them like a fine wine, washing them around in the mouth to pleasure the palate. I pinned words of particular interest down to my mind that I found interesting and peculiar. From books, newspapers, songs and television I set out to expand my range in expeditions of linguistics. Words like "saturnine", "euphoria" and "clandestine" began to pepper my early short stories and poetry, usually looking rather out of place with the rest of the sentence they nested in. My English teachers were mighty impressed, however, and such praise and approval of my prowess for phraseology further fueled my want to unearth words with a high syllable count even though I may not have exactly understood what said words meant. The Increase Your Vocabulary section of the Reader’s Digest replenished monthly in my mother’s bathroom became a constant source of verbal inspiration. Strange, such studies never increased my proficiency in Scrabble. Damn the contestant barrage of consonants!

Growing up within the Canadian school system, when not partaking in common school subjects like mathematics, science, the ever tortuous physical education and learning how the yield a better maple syrup crop, I was forced to take French. I loathed this. I hated French class with the seething hatred a film critic reserves for Gigli. I was already enamoured with English. My precious time, I thought, should be spent in advancing a language I was already exceptionally competent in (well, that, and maybe a little Super Mario 3…okay, a lot of Super Mario 3).

The culmination of my abhorrence for the French language took place in highschool and the full brunt of my wrath was dolled out to a thin, mousy woman with disheveled blonde hair and thick glasses. The battlegrounds were clearly drawn from day one. I eyed this woman like a Rottweiler would eye raw meat. True, I did not know her, she hadn’t even spoken a word yet in her ridiculous French accent, but the instant our eyes locked, like charging bucks in the throws of battle, she became my nemesis. She may have been a fundraiser for AIDS research, a giver to the poor or a saint of Mother Theresa like proportions but, in those days of ignorant youthful folly, she was my enemy. Her name was Miss Manson and she was my Lex Luthor!

In retrospect, I was a terrible student in French class as I treated it as one might treat recess: a time to exhale the learning and breathe in the fun. Though not one to run with the pack of usual mischief-makers, in French class I sprinted with them and, boy howdy, I relished it! Our group became a united front against all things French. She was Bonaparte and we were the forces of Wellington. Each day we found new and inovative ways to torment this poor woman. I recall the Papers Incident now and cannot help but smile. It was an ingenious set up conceived by one of the greatest sinister minds a high school had ever created. He was a Frankenstein’s monster, made from the parts of a dozen bullies before him. He ate Scut Farkus for breakfast, a lunch he snaked on Eddie Pinetti and for super he dined on Nelson Muntz. If this guy is still among us one can place high Vegas odds that 90% of his body is tattooed, he has a facial scar, three teeth, and, when the guards are not looking, he carves his initials into the flesh of new fish with a keyhole saw. If you are a census taker, do not try and test him.

The Papers Incident is probably now forgotten by all but those who participated in it. In these strange post-Columbine days, innocuous pranks like the Papers Incident are small potatoes. Never the less, the weeklong plot is one even Capt. Hilts would have to marvel at.

Monday: I was commissioned to the front lines. The plan, this day, was to get me there. By causing a rather minor, but substantial enough, disturbance from our usual seats in the back of the class I was moved to spot directly in front of Manson’s desk. We referred to as the cauldron. It was always a mess of clutter. Pens, rulers, dog-eared text box, unmarked tests from the 40s and all the things that would fester in her educator’s pot of evil. Oh, yes, and there was plenty of paper. Like any good plan, one must start with a trickle and not a torrent. Miss Manson turned, the chalk squeaked like a stomped rodent, and I blew at the stack of papers on the corner edge of the desk. Although not as many as I might have liked, two or three papers were enough. They floated feather like to the floor at Manson’s feet. She turned. She stooped. She picked them up and placed them back on the desk. Phase one was a success.

Tuesday: Coming to class before the teacher arrived, especially a class you’d happily get a sandpaper enema to miss, was never looked highly upon by the student body. Such diligence was equated to those polymaths that wore suspenders, believed Ninja Turtles were real and spent Friday nights at Grandma’s for tea and Trivial Pursuit. However, this day, the baddest of the bad would join their ranks. I wish I were there to see the pimples on their faces pop at the sight so unprecedented. His mission was simple: slip into the room, place the papers on the floor and slip out. Manson would arrive, find the papers again on the floor and pick them up to be placed on the desk. I, still serving my sentence at the front of the class, would blow the papers off once again at the opportune time. This time she spun, darted her eyes across the room, her beady red eyes, her gaze spewing venom, and settled upon me. I, of course, was in the process of transcribing her lesson –rather vigorously, I might add. She had no proof. She stooped and picked up the papers. The returned the desk. She was on to us.

Wednesday: Our leader crept into class early again to carry out his deleterious design. Once again he moved the papers to the floor but this time he raised the bar to a level only evil geniuses like him could. On this day, when Manson arrived into class, she found that the papers had been arranged into a single word: HA! Yes, he even, I hear tell, added the exclamation point. As prearranged, a third member of our group was called upon to play his part. He would arrive early, take his seat, and watch the events of the discovery unfold. As predicted, Manson would question those present and he, in a turn sure to arouse her suspicions, would finger another one of us. When our clan arrived, I would be asked to take a desk further away and he would be asked to replace me. This had happened for less duplicitous crimes. Manson was, if nothing else, an extremely predictable target. Here I would fulfill my end of the plot. As I was walking by the desk I "accidentally" sent the papers tumbling back to the floor. I apologized, trying not the burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and took my seat. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on Manson’s face. Her frustration was mounting. She was about to crack.

Thursday: Nothing. The papers remained on the desk. One can envision Manson slowly walking into her classroom wondering what could possibly be in store for her and those white sheets on this day. It must have eaten at her with every passing moment. She would turn, every now and again, in such an abrupt motion you think she would cause herself whiplash. Her eyes would latch onto the desk. The papers were motionless. The sweat beads turned into thin rivulets running down her face in thread lines. It was all meant to lead her to believe we had surrendered. This day would be her reprieve. It was the calm before the storm.

Friday: Our Captain would lead the final charge. This time he slithered into the classroom long before the geekiest of geek. I wonder, after the final piece was laid, upon the last brushstroke, did he stand back in awe of his brilliant masterwork. On that day, he was da Vinci looking upon his Mona Lisa. The class progressed as it seemed to always do with a monotonous onslaught of verb conjugation and enunciation repetition. It is the final five minutes before the freedom of the weekend. The scene plays out in classic cliché slow motion. Our sniper fires a rubber band at the blackboard making no attempt to camouflage his actions. Due to the Elastic Wars earlier that year, this act was met with instant removal from class (or what the baddies referred to as a smoke break). While our gunner was being ejected our recruit on the front line sent the first two pieces of paper on their final journey to the classroom floor. Their fall was almost graceful. Manson returns from the disposing of a pawn to find that the king has made his move. She unleashes an all out assault on us in what can only be called a beautiful crafting of the French language to illustrate petulance. I wish I had listened enough in class to understand her. Face red, hair even more unkempt then usual, she stalks towards the desk and grabs at the paper stack and one can only assume she is wondering why she had not put these away earlier that week. With this motion the king has taken her. Manson has discovered that the stack of papers has been glued together and, furthermore, glued to the desk. Mission accomplished. The queen is removed from play. Quite literally, actually. Manson uttered a sound that can only be compared to a walrus in mid-coitus and she raced out of the room. She would be gone the next week cashing in some vacation time, a janitor would curse his lot in life as he removed the papers and varnished the desk and the story of the Paper Incident would pass into legend and fade into obscurity.

So, Miss Manson, my teacher of a language I did not feel I would need and, honestly, have still never really utilized to the full extent of your training, I apologize for not only the Paper Incident but for all the elastics thrown, purposely mispronounced words and, yes, for evening spreading the rumor that your were Charles’ daughter. Albeit extremely belated, I am truly, truly sorry. Most of all, I hope that none of my classes yield the terrible student that I was to you although I am sure, if by some chance they allow you access to the internet in the sanitarium and you read this, you are wishing quite the opposite.

Fortunately I cannot antagonize my professors of the Japanese language. They are but educators in the form of Mp3s (okay, so I am conforming to modern technological developments!). I have named the man Yuki and the woman Yoko. Unlike those days of dreading French class, I actually am finding myself excited to be met by them each time I pop on the earphones. Although the task seems daunting, I am up to the challenge and will freely let my teachers guide me. Yuki and Yoko are my Miyagis and I will obediently wax on, wax off if they command it. Unlike poor Miss Manson, I hold no ill will towards them. (However, I do suspect that Yoko and Yuji are having an affair that developed over the course of the recordings as their exchanges are becoming more and more amorous with each passing lesson. She, of course, fought his advances at first but could no longer deny her curiosity. Besides, her husband Toshio no longer respects her and is constantly away on business trips. She reminds Yuki of a lover in his youth. I have this image of, come, say, Lesson 40, a pounding is heard on the door of the recording booth and storms Toshio filled with sake and rage. Screams are heard. As I wonder if this is part of the lesson and whether or not I should be repeating these screams aloud, two gunshots ends Lesson 50 in silence. Lesson 41 begins with Toshio telling us how to say "My wife is a whore" in Japanese before the last gunshot completes my study of the Japanese language).

The study of the language, as well as continuously thumbing through my Lonely Planet guide, is starting to quell some of the nervousness inside as my departure advances quickly forward (One week gone in 2007 already. Wowsers!). I have actually taken quite quickly to it and within a few weeks I should be able to convert to memory some of the basics. Still, I await the moment when I know that I have mastered the language and I am able to utter this important Japanese phrase with ease: the raccoon has taken my pineapple.