The Stinky Kid

I'm uncertain if a child ever realizes that they are the “stinky” kid at school—a universally understood description of the neglected child who arrives unkempt, disheveled, possibly with dirty clothes and various substances on their skin. That was undoubtedly me—the little girl with wild, unbrushed hair, mismatched clothes, smelling of cigarette smoke, and worn shoes.

My mother began as an attentive parent when my sisters and I were very small. However, as the years passed, I noticed a change. While my older sisters looked put together, I felt my mother gave up on me once I was born. I asked her about the fewer pictures of me, and her casual response was, “you just don’t care as much when you have more kids.”

During our time on Monroe Street, living across from our elementary school, I walked to class every morning with wild, unbrushed hair, stained clothes, and a growing sense of anxiety and fear.

Entering first grade with Ms. Lucas, a teacher not happy with me, was always a disappointment. Ms. Lucas disapproved of the “stinky” kid, and on one cool fall day, her disapproval became explicit. She called me to her desk, mumbled about my unbrushed hair, and forcefully pulled a rubber band from her drawer. She gathered my tangled hair and wrapped the rubber band, causing pain, dismissing my discomfort.

Despite my appearance, I was a smart and well-behaved child. However, Ms. Lucas disliked having a “stinky” kid in her class. On this day, she took issue with my hair, sprayed something on my neck, and, upon discovering my pulled-up socks, exclaimed that I had fleas. The humiliation intensified as she sprayed me frantically and declared my isolation from the class due to the alleged fleas.

Directed to sit alone, I began to cry, explaining my stomachache. Lacking breakfast at home, I dry heaved for a few minutes, earning stares from my peers and frustration from Ms. Lucas. In shame, I walked to the nurse, labeled as having fleas. When I reached the nurse's office, I handed the note to the receptionist, and hushed whispers ensued among the adults in the administration office. I took a seat on a bench, sharing it with another child whose face bore tear stains. Soon, I was redirected to another bench in the hall, away from the other child.

A bell rang, signifying a break for the first graders. Anticipating the arrival of my peers, I lowered my head, aware of the approaching laughter and chatter. Seth, a young boy who, like me, was a "stinky" kid and a "troublemaker," kindly asked if I was joining them. I kept my head down and remained silent.

My impatient teacher seized my arm, exclaiming, “I told you to go to the nurse!” My attempts to explain stumbled upon my words, rendering me unable to communicate the situation. She dragged me back into the administration office, where Seth watched in fear. Holding up my arm, she announced, “She was coming to the nurse because she has fleas!” The nurse quietly walked out of her office and explained that my parents had been called. With my head down and stomach in knots, I expressed that I did not feel well. Ms. Lucas stormed out of the office, and I was allowed to enter the nurse's station and rest. There, I saw a blue vinyl couch covered in butcher paper. I walked over, curled into a ball, and quickly fell asleep.

I don't remember what happened following this incident. I believe I had to leave school and couldn't return until the flea issue was resolved. Years later, my mom would laugh about the time we supposedly had fleas so bad that we couldn't get rid of them. While I understand that flea infestations can happen, I question how it escalated so out of hand. I doubt they made genuine efforts to address the problem, as my parents had a tendency to turn a blind eye to issues affecting their children and focus on themselves. I cannot recall if this happened when my father was hospitalized or present, but either way, I didn't matter.