It was a night class during my first year at the State University of New Paltz. I thought “Interpersonal Communications” would be an easy A, but I was wrong. I was painfully shy back then, and I did my best to blend in.
Dudley-something was the name of the teacher who looked like a giant, slobbering rabbit. In fact, I’ll say giant, slobbering hare, because he was so incredibly off-putting that I wouldn’t insult rabbits by comparing the two creatures. I still see him in my mind as a kind of Donnie Darko, carrot-massacring freak, and I will always feel sorry for his wife and children.
The class was nonsense, as I predicted it would be. What I did not account for was the fact that my reserved presence and resting bitch face got under the teacher’s skin so much that I became his personal axe to grind. If I was late to class, or if—on the occasions when my depressive nature kept me home—I didn’t make it at all, I would become the subject of the evening’s lecture, titled: “What Is Wrong With That Girl?”
Since it was a night class, there were a lot of older, back-to-college-after-all-these-years folk attending with me. They seemed harmless enough, but their eager-beaver approach and sycophantic laughter at Dudley’s jokes turned me off.
One night—I don’t remember why—the subject of childhood toys came up. Tinker Toys were discussed with such fondness you’d think they were the only toy worth having. I had never heard the phrase before and asked what it was. What followed was shock and awe. This toy of toys and I were not cozy bedfellows, and I had to endure an evening of in-depth explanation about what they were, how great they were, and pity for not knowing.
The next week, my hunched-over body went back to class and into my assigned seat. In the center of my desk was a wrapped circular box with my name on it. Every cell bristled as I unwrapped the box in front of everyone, only to find a giant barrel of Tinker Toys—purchased by one of the recently divorced men also taking this supposedly easy class. I do not remember his name.
The rest is a blur, as I dissociated for the remainder of the semester, unable to process the infantilization by a much older man and being made into a sort of sad class mascot.
I got a C from Dudley. It messed with my average and caused a problem with my mom later that semester, but Dudley was a dick and I hated him with my whole heart, and he could tell. He could see through me as many embarrassments of men had done before and have done since. That gift of Tinker Toys brought me nothing but shame. This class and each memory of that coney-faced teacher, which still haunt me to this day, was an unfortunate exercise in what can go wrong with interpersonal communication.
