I'm THAT Jorge...

“Who did this?”

I looked around the room, wondering if anyone was actually going to take credit for the huge piece of shit lying in the middle of our preschool classroom. It was big…..it was massive. No, seriously. It could have been mistaken for one of us kids.

“I said, ‘Who did this?’”

My teacher was obviously not expecting someone to confess. Instead, she was using the seemingly endless period of silence to ponder what her next step should be.

“Ok,” she said. “I want everyone to get back to what you were doing. I am going to call each of you out of the classroom one-at-a-time to talk about this. Jason, let’s start with you.”

Jason, who had been sitting closest to the now overwhelmingly-rancid stool, walked out with the teacher as her assistant began the humiliating task of cleaning it off of the floor. As he walked past us, we could all see the guilt in Jason’s eyes. But it wasn’t a look that manifested his involvement; he looked guilty because he knew all of us were assuming that he had done it. However, it was only 15-20 seconds before he walked back in, relief written all over his face. Someone else’s name was called, directing them to step outside. It was at this point that I realized every single one of us was actually going to be summoned outside.

Inexplicable terror overcame my senses as I began to play that moment in my head where Teacher would look me in the eye and say, “Jorge, did you put your poo on the floor?”

You see, the excrement was mine. And as more names were called, it felt as if the fecal matter itself had come to life simply to point at me and scream, “It was him! He did this to me!”

We had been working on some arts and crafts, an exercise I was very fond of. I don’t remember what the project was that day, but I do recall that I felt particularly inspired that afternoon as I put my crayola to the construction paper. So inspired, in fact, I had refused to pause for the restroom trip my body was relentlessly begging me for. More pointedly, I hated using the little boys’ room at school.

While most preschool boys had no sense of hygiene and would consequently turn restroom trips into ‘water gun’ fights, I had been raised to regard bathroom hygiene as one of life’s singular important considerations. But to use that bathroom at my school was to make ‘good hygiene’ a nearly impossible endeavor. Merely stepping inside meant walking in to a pool of urine. If you dared to enter one of the stalls, you did so knowing that their walls would be smeared with a ‘mysterious’ brown substance, often accompanied by blues and greens that indicated the substance had been there for quite some time. It was a world within itself, full of vicious and volatile creatures, and I did everything in my power to avoid it at all times.

Getting back to my art project, I knew that the end of the day was approaching. Knowing this, I assumed that I would be able to control my bowel’s urges until one of my parents picked me up so that I could go somewhere clean. But at that point I was barely potty-trained, still a novice in the art of holding one’s poo. So as I did my best to hide the struggle that was going on in my pants, the world’s largest preschooler-shitsicle began to force its way out of my ass, and into my Curious George undies. I stood up quickly, desperate to keep from smashing the matter. Many of my fellow classmates would stand while doing crafts, so I didn’t garner any attention with my sudden movement. But I knew I had a dilemma that was obviously becoming more impossible to ignore. The only thing I knew for certain was that it was too late to alert my teacher. Doing so would have meant calling attention to myself by grabbing my ass and walking in that embarrassing manner that kids always do when they are about to explode……down there. For me, avoiding attention through this debacle was priority number one. So I stood there, continuing my craft, solely aware of what was really going on down south. Eventually, the end of the substance came out; my body was relieved of the tension. But the physical relief was short-lived, replaced immediately by stress from the realization that there was still a giant piece of shit in my pants that was sure to start reaching some noses very soon. I needed to be rid of it before that happened. I’m not proud of what happened next, but I WAS four years old. Desperate to be rid of the excrement, I reached my hand into the back of my pants and grabbed it. As I pulled it out, I took just a few steps over toward the next table of kids and threw it in their direction.

……………..

I looked around the room. No one appeared to have noticed anything. Success!

I had prevailed over a nearly impossible situation! I was so proud of myself. Believe it or not, there wasn’t much of anything on my hand. But I was still terribly aware of the thing I had just been holding. So I grabbed one of the Wet Wipes that were readily available at every table and promptly cleaned my hands. Disposing of the wipe, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I had finally eliminated the last bit of evidence that could have incriminated me. Or so I thought. No sooner did I return to my art project when those words pierced through all of the noisy chatter.

“Who did this?”

It was a factor I had not even considered. Obviously, someone would eventually notice the thing on the floor. Of course! Someone was going to smell it, see it, or step on it. However the means, it was bound to be found!

“I said, ‘Who did this?’”

“I should have known,” I thought to myself, frantically searching my mind for a way to get out of this. As each student’s name was called to step outside, my fear increased. The only thing I could do was try my best to look as nonchalant as I wanted my fellow classmates to think I was.

“Everything will be fine,” I tried to comfort myself. “All you have to do is say it isn’t yours. They can’t prove it. They’ll never know.”

“Jorge! Come on out here buddy.”

This was it. This was my moment of truth. I have no idea what I looked like as I walked out. Considering my future success as a liar, I would like to think I had the perfect poker face on as I passed by the students. More realistically, I had probably given myself away the moment she called my name. The walk of shame to the hallway was a painful one. Every step seemed harder than the last one, especially knowing that my teacher was standing at the door, waiting to interrogate me. My only thoughts were of my upcoming delivery of denial. As she shut the door behind me, I gathered my wits to summon up a convincing act of innocence.

“Turn around,” she instructed me.

This was unexpected.

“Why?”

“I’m going to look at your underwear.”

So after all of this, it had come to dropping my pants. I turned around, finally resolved to my defeat. I couldn’t lie my way out of the huge stain that was sure to be all over my underwear. As she pulled back my pants, I heard the sigh. It was a sigh of disappointment, but also of relief to have finally found the answer to her question. Turning me back to face her, she spoke with a soft voice.

“Why did you do this, Jorge?”

If I couldn’t deny, the next step was naturally to make her feel sorry for me.

“I couldn’t help it!” I exclaimed. “I thought I could hold it until my mom picked me up, but then it just came out! Then I was too scared to tell, so I just took it out! But I cleaned my hand! I promise!”

She wrapped me up tightly. At the time, I thought she was comforting me and telling me that she understood. In retrospect, I would be willing to bet she hugged me to keep me from seeing her laugh at the situation. Pulling away, she looked me straight in the eyes.

“Ok, well from now on, you need to tell me when you need to use the restroom. Do you understand? Don’t try to wait anymore. Ok? Now go back inside and finish your crafts.”

I nodded in agreement as she opened the door for me. But in my head, I was still despairing. Now I would have to face the worst part of the whole ordeal; humiliation from my classmates as they discovered that I was, in fact, the guilty one.

“Deena! You’re next!”

I looked back at my teacher, shock and confusion certainly written all over my face. Looking straight at me, she gave me a wink and smile and then stepped outside with Deena. I wouldn’t be suffering any humiliation on this day. Teacher wound up calling every person outside just so that no one would ever know who had done the evil deed. It stands to this day as one of the single greatest acts of kindness that has ever been bestowed upon me. I don’t even know if she ever told my parents. If she did, they never mentioned it to me.

Come to think of it, I don’t think I have ever told another soul about this incident.

……………………

Shit.