Proud Mary

In seventh grade at Ethan Public Schools, a new music instructor joined us, and from day one, I found her absolutely wonderful. Mrs. Larson infused our band and choir classes with remarkable energy and passion that quickly captivated all of us. As a talented musician, she skillfully made learning new pieces and techniques enjoyable and engaging, transforming even ordinary rehearsals into exciting adventures. Her enthusiasm was infectious, inspiring us to express ourselves musically and encouraging us to take on challenges, whether perfecting difficult notes or performing in front of peers during practice sessions. More than just teaching, she took the time to get to know me personally and introduced me to her daughter.

Becoming friends with her daughter, Jessica, was an unexpected and rewarding experience that introduced me to a world beyond school. When Jessica invited me to her home, I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness, unsure of what to expect. Yet, as soon as I walked in, Mrs. Larson welcomed me warmly, quickly putting me at ease. We gathered in her bright, sunlit kitchen for a quick snack, during which she asked me to call her Mary. Playful and lighthearted, she served us cookies while we chatted. Witnessing this personal side of a teacher was fascinating, and I decided then that my teacher was the coolest mom around! After our snack, Jessica and I went down to the basement where we talked openly about everything from her parents’ recent divorce to the pressures of school. That moment marked the beginning of a friendship that continued through the remainder of middle school.

In the eighth grade, Jessica and I were hospitalized at the same time. Mrs. Larson visited me in my room and shared that Jessica was experiencing stomach issues with doctors running tests to determine the cause. However, later that evening, Jessica opened up to me, revealing that she had attempted to take her own life. This revelation shattered my idealized image of Mrs. Larson as a perfect mother, though I had yet to understand the profound impact this conversation would have on my future.

When Mrs. Larson found out that I knew about Jessica’s suicide attempt, it unexpectedly changed everything between us. What began as a caring exchange of a heavy secret between friends suddenly transformed into coldness and rejection at school. Instead of responding with empathy or gratitude, Mrs. Larson distanced herself sharply, treating my knowledge of her daughter’s pain as a betrayal rather than an act of concern. This not only ended my friendship with Jessica but also extinguished the warmth and trust that once defined Mrs. Larson’s attitude toward me at school. From then on, she met me with icy indifference, leaving me to wrestle with feelings of hurt, bewilderment, and helplessness. As time passed, my confusion turned into anger, and our relationship devolved into a power struggle.

Back in middle school, Mrs. Larson often picked me for solos in both band and choir, always offering encouraging feedback. Things changed after I found out about Jessica's difficulties! Suddenly, Mrs. Larson stopped giving me solo roles. What hurt even more was that she began criticizing me harshly during rehearsals for small mistakes or what she saw as inattention, which felt overly strict. This abrupt change left me confused and anxious, but my passion for music kept me focused on improving. I held onto the hope that, with time, things would get better and we could restore the positive connection we once had.

Beyond merely treating me differently, Mrs. Larson's overall behavior began to take a troubling turn. She frequently lost her temper during music sessions, showing unusual irritation and impatience that broke the previously peaceful atmosphere. Furthermore, she started engaging in flirtatious behavior with several male students, creating unease among the rest of us. Her once caring and attentive nature faded into indifference, as she increasingly neglected her duties and the welfare of her students. This profound transformation not only dampened morale within her classes but also deepened my growing disappointment in what had once been my favorite teacher.

Mrs. Larson’s persistent nagging started off as faint digs and trivial remarks, but gradually, their frequency and intensity grew to the point where my patience started to fray. Rather than succumbing to the pressure, I chose to resist, not through outright defiance, but by wielding sarcasm and subtle acts of rebellion that I like to call my “minor mutiny.” Whether it was responding to her cutting remarks with cleverly disguised retorts or deliberately misunderstanding her orders just enough to throw off her expectations, these little acts of defiance became my method of regaining control and safeguarding my peace of mind. Although she never acknowledged my quiet defiance, those moments of witty resistance gave me an unexpected sense of empowerment, transforming her constant fault-finding from a source of irritation into a spark for my silent uprising.

One day, I uncovered a surprising fact about my adversary – she absolutely detested the song “Proud Mary". Since her first name was Mary, I started referring to her as Proud Mary Larson whenever chatting with my classmates. I then incorporated the song into my subtle revenge during class. I began discreetly slipping the chorus into conversations, humming it softly during choir, and casually playing it on my trombone during band practice. Witnessing her faint grimace and exasperated sighs whenever those recognizable opening notes filled the room became my small triumph. It wasn’t just about getting under her skin; it felt like an inventive way to reclaim control, transforming a simple tune into a potent weapon in our ongoing conflict.

Near the conclusion of my final year in high school, tensions with Mrs. Larson escalated to their highest point. During the start of band practice, everyone was occupied with getting their instruments ready and organizing their sheet music. I was positioned near the rear, among the trombone players, while Mrs. Larson was at the front, engaged in conversation with a group of boys. As my friend Peggy attempted to squeeze between her and the director's podium to reach the clarinet section, Proud Mary leaned over, coyly revealing her chest to the saxophone section. Her large backside collided with Peggy, causing her to stumble against the conductor's podium. The impact of Peggy and the podium hitting the floor sparked Mrs. Larson’s fury. She grabbed Peggy by her shirt, pulled her up, and began yelling about paying attention to where she was going.

Without hesitation, I stood up and challenged, "Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?" Proud Mary slowly cast a look in my direction. Locking eyes with her, I daringly added, "Oh wait, there’s no one AS BIG AS YOU!"

The large woman immediately released her grip on Peggy’s shirt, while the enthralled band members sat in tense silence, waiting to see what would unfold. With a trembling hand, the furious director pointed toward the door and snapped, "Out! Go to Mr. Ruth’s office!"

Adrenaline surged through me as I gave a small nod and proceeded to my case to stow my trombone. Brimming with youthful confidence, I began to hum "Proud Mary" loudly while slowly twisting the lock nut to remove my slide. Suddenly, I realized I had gone too far when a chorus of gasps reached my ears, and I looked up to see Mrs. Larson charging toward me, her eyes blazing with fury. She grabbed my cherished trombone, shouting, "Get the hell out of here!"

"Let go of my trombone, you stupid cow, so I can put it away!" I shouted back.

Neither of us was willing to release the instrument until the much larger woman forcibly pushed me into the storage shelves, causing me to lower my arms in surrender. After exchanging one last furious glare with her, I slipped out the door, stomped down the stairs, and made my way through the long corridor and across the stage toward the superintendent’s office.

Flushed and sulky, I barged into Mr. Ruth's office and, without awaiting any invitation, planted myself forcefully in the chair opposite his desk. I folded my arms defiantly and gazed at the perplexed administrator in complete silence. My body still trembled from the earlier confrontation, and lacking the composure to explain calmly why I had been sent to him instead of the high school principal, I simply maintained a silent, obstinate stare.

Without uttering a single word, he rose from behind his desk and exited the room. Left alone, I sat quietly, reflecting on the obviously poor choices that had landed me in this predicament. I recognized that I had crossed a line this time and dreaded the harsh consequences that might follow. When Mr. Ruth finally came back, a smug expression on his face, he announced, "You're suspended. Gather your belongings and go home."

My mind was overwhelmed with shock, and my throat was so dry that I could barely speak. Somehow, I got to my feet, left the office, and reached the stage before breaking down completely. Trembling sobs shook my body as I pounded the walls of the secluded space. None of my siblings had ever faced suspension, and I was the youngest of the family. How could I possibly explain this to Mom and Dad? Would this derail my chances of going to college? Could it ruin my GPA? Feeling lost, I curled up on the floor, hugging myself tightly as tears streamed down my face.

The counselor’s office was located above the stage, so when Mr. Weigandt heard me crying, he came to find me. Although I didn’t feel particularly close to him, I ended up confiding everything: the whole story and years of pent-up frustration culminating in this breaking point. To my surprise, he comforted me and proposed that we speak with Principal Fritzmeyer together. We made our way up two long flights of stairs to his office, all the while feeling like students and teachers were staring at me. I moved forward like a condemned woman approaching her fate, barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Inside the cramped office, the two men discussed the situation while I sat with my head in my hands, awaiting my sentence. I felt utterly defeated, hopeless about what lay ahead.

Much to my astonishment, Mr. Fritzmeyer overturned Mr. Ruth’s ruling to suspend me. Rather than suspending me, he decided to take me out of band for the rest of the year and assigned me to study hall. He also warned me quite firmly that if I misbehaved in choir, I would be removed from that activity too. Knowing that Mrs. Larson and I rarely clashed during choir, I was confident I could manage my behavior over the next month with relative ease. I could hardly believe my luck – I had been spared!

In the weeks that followed, I kept a low profile in choir, determined to avoid any trouble and stay out of Mrs. Larson’s sharp gaze. The pain of being removed from band still lingered, yet I found comfort in small triumphs: the encouragement of my bandmates and the growing awareness that defending others can sometimes come at a price worth paying. When graduation finally came, I not only walked across the stage filled with pride but also sang with joy in the senior choir. Despite having risked my entire senior year over my petty grudge against Proud Mary, I had managed to come through intact, ready for the next challenge.

I wish I could say I matured and stopped resenting Mary Larson, but sadly, I’m not quite that grown-up. As a fellow teacher, her behavior remains perplexing and seems to cross every ethical line. As a parent, I can’t fathom blaming one of my child’s friends for offering them comfort after a suicide attempt. It seems I’ll never fully grasp her reasoning, so instead, whenever I face a tough adversary, I find myself whistling “Proud Mary” as a sort of anthem for the battle ahead.