Suffer the children …

by David Benjamin

 

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ass …”   Exodus, 20:17

 

And so it came to pass that the Republicans of Louisiana decreed that all classrooms in each school of every parish shall array the graven precepts handed to Moses by the Lord and shlepped down from the mount to instruct the children of Israel. And so it came to pass, a lot later, that each pedagogue in the state’s temples of learning hung the statutes of the Lord with tape and push-pins for all pupils to suffer, and the children of Louisiana in the town Lafitte, unlike Israel’s children in the wastes of Sinai, were sore curious about what the hell this all meant.

And so, a plague of questions like unto swarms of locusts fell upon the gray head of the servant of the school district, Mme. St-Pierre, until at last, came to pass the query she dreaded most, from little Bobby Shaftoe, who sayeth for all to hear.

Bobby: “Ms. Saint (for so she was called), what’s adultery?”

Like Moses teetering on a loose boulder, the pedagogue paused to regain her balance, but then spake boldly.

Mme. St-Pierre: “Bobby, that’s when a man and a woman aren’t married to each other, but they have sex.”

And so, a pall of silence hung over the class—which was the second grade of the Lafitte Primary School—lasting all of three seconds, at the end of which Cynthia Jones spake with brazen inquisition.

Cynthia: “What’s sex?”

And so it came to pass that sex education, long forbidden by God and man in Louisiana, weaseled its way back into public education. Knowing this taboo but faced by thirty tiny faces inspired by God’s holy Commandments and glowing with eagerness to learn, the pedagogue spake elliptically thus:

Mme. St-Pierre: “Sex is, well, a sharing … of bodily fluids.”

Whereat questions swept the pedagogue like the Red Sea upon the Egyptians.

Cynthia: “What’s ‘bodily,’ Ms. Saint?”

Bobby: “And what’s ‘fluids’?”

And so, a precocious pupil, Alexandra, did interpose

Alexandra: “It’s like spit, right, Ms. Saint?”

Bobby: “People spitting on each other? That’s sex?”

Mme. St-Pierre: “No, wait.”

Lest the discourse descend into sheer juvenile cacophony, the pedagogue strove to elucidate, with great delicacy, that congress which is forbidden to the unwed in the sixth (or seventh?) Commandment of the Lord. But, like every second-grade class since Moses, the pupils demanded more detail and details within each detail, waving their hands, outshouting one another, pressing close to the pedagogue until amidst a torrent of of insistence, she uttered the words that sealed her fate in Louisiana and the whole South for that matter, and possibly everywhere else, whispering first the dread “vagina,” and soon thereafter, “penis.”

Tommy Thatcher: “You mean my pecker?”

And so it came to pass that the pedagogue wept into her hands while pupils rained questions upon her, like paving stones upon a martyr.

Bobby: “Aw, Ms. Saint, c’mon! Who would do a thing like that?”

Little Nell Nugebaum: (A finger in her mouth) “Yecch.”

Cynthia: “That the stupidest thing I ever heard!”

Alexandra: “No, Cindy. It’s true. Icky but true.”

Tiffany Thompson: (Imploringly) “Oh, Ms. Saint, please! Tell us why?”

The pedagogue, whose future in teaching would now end when the bell rang, threw up her hands and spake thus: “It’s love.”

As one, her pupils scoffed and splurted razzberries between their lips. 

Cynthia: “I ain’t doin’ that with nobody. Besides, I don’t love anybody.”

MaryJo Fournier: (Shocked) “Not even your mom?”

Cynthia: “Well, oui, I love my mom. But … ”

And so it came to pass, without intercession, or even a single word, from the pedagogue, that the second grade of the Lafitte Primary School broached, bantered, and colorfully distorted the mystery of lesbianism, with shades of incest.

Until, of course, struck by inspiration, the pedagogue said one word that commanded silence: “Babies!”

Cynthia: “Babies?”

Mme. St-Pierre: “Enough of this nonsense, children. It’s simple. People have sex to make babies.”

Tiffany: “No!”

Mme. St-Pierre: “No?”

Tiffany: “Babies are brought down from Heaven, by angels.”

Alexandra: “No! Ms. Saint is right. Men and women take off their pants—”

Bobby: “No, you’re both wrong. Girls are so stupid. Babies come from eggs.”

Cynthia: “Eggs? Chickens make babies?”

Bubba Robbins: (Another precinct heard from) “Hey, what about the stork?”

Mme. St-Pierre: “No, please … ”

Little Nell: “Seeds.”

Tommy: “Seeds?”

Little Nell: “Oh, yes. Tiny pink seeds … ”

Tommy: “You mean you grow babies in pots, like daisies and geruliums?”

Ronnie Wilson: “I think they come from polliwogs.”

Alexandra: “No, no! I’ve seen it, when my little brother was born. He came right out of my mom. She was scrunched up and yelling, and then suddenly, he popped out. Sploosh! With a lot of blood and gooey stuff. And started crying.”

Tiffany: (Curling a lip) “Ew, gross! You’re lying, Alexandra.”

Alexandra: “No, it’s true. I saw!”

Bobby: “You mean a baby’s like a great big poop?”

Mme. St-Pierre: “Oh dear God.”

Cassandra Green: (Authoritatively) “You can’t say that, Ms. Saint. You can’t say ‘God’ in school. My parents said the Compistution says you can’t.”

The pedagogue knelt on the floor, face to face with her only atheist and spake as though filled by a demon.

Mme. St-Pierre: “You’re right, kid. I can’t say ‘God’ in school. But you do, every morning when I force you to recite the goddamn Pledge of Allegiance.”

The pedagogue then grabbed several pupils and spake.

Mme. St-Pierre: “You’re right, all of you little monsters. Babies come from little seeds but they can’t grow ’til a man and a woman get married and spit on the seeds, and then they grow into plants, like tomatoes, except the tomatoes are eggs that storks sit on ’til they’re ready to crack open, and then the mother who spit on the seeds, she breaks the egg and eats it—raw!—in a glass of prune juice. You left out the prune juice, Alexandra! Then, the egg swims around inside the mother’s tummy ’til an angel flies down, says bibbity-bobbity-boo and boing, the egg turns into a polliwog, and it grows and grows in mommy’s tummy into the biggest turd in all of Louisiana ’til there’s no room in mommy any longer and it squirts right out of the poor, suffering woman’s asshole and becomes Alexandra’s baby brother!”

For a moment, silence reigned. Even Alexandra fell mute. 

Until it came to pass that Bobby Shaftoe had another question.

Bobby: “Ms. Saint, is Yogi Bear a false witness ’cause he’s a cartoon and not a real bear?” 

And so it came to pass that the pedagogue ripped the Commandments from her bulletin board and fled the second grade. Weeping and rending her garments, she forsook the Lafitte Primary School, never to be seen again.