WELL DONE! WHY I SAID WHAT I SAID TO THE BARTENDER by Alaina Hammond

You are six years old. I referred to you—in the presence of the bartender and no one else—as a fucking cunt.

My exact words were “I hate that fucking cunt.”

And this is what I meant by that.

I said I hate you, because I find it frustrating that you so consistently steal time from your classmates, while compromising their learning. I’m annoyed that you deliberately monopolize our attention by acting out. Camilla can barely read, but she’s quiet. Thus our eyes are on you, instead of on Camilla, who surely needs them more.

Frankly, I resent the way the other teachers reward you for your bad behavior. They feed your vicious cycles with their indulgence. As the teacher with the least authority, I’m in no position to tell them that. And I’m annoyed at you for creating that hidden schism between myself and the colleagues I otherwise respect.

I said I hate you, but what I mean is that I’m disturbed by your bursts of violence. I have a bruise on my hand from when I blocked your blows, directed at Matthew. The book you used was sharp and heavy, which was why you chose to hit him with it. Also, you hurt my head when you threw a pencil at me, on purpose, because you didn’t want to do math. And in that moment, yes, I hated you. You’re vicious. You’re feral. You suck.

I told the bartender I hate you because I can’t tell YOU that. I have to take your shit, because it’s my job. It’s exhausting having to constantly censor myself all the time. So I said it to the bartender instead, because that way you don’t have to deal with my anger. By letting off steam in that moment I can find the strength to do this shit again next week. Letting myself insult you, uncensored, is part of the process in which I stay kind to you.

I called you a cunt, and I said that I hate you, because I’ve seen the way your parents and your grandparents are with you. How loving, how patient, how involved in your education all four of them are. You seem to have no respect for the depth of your good fortune. You literally spit on your beleaguered mother, when she said it was time for you to leave. You fucking cunt, what a cunty thing to do!

I called you a cunt and said I hate you because you made fun of Emily’s weight the other day. At six, you know damn well how cruel you’re being.

I called you a cunt because you WORRY me. I’m worried about your future. I’m worried that your impulse control issues will only increase as you get older. I’m worried that these problems will avalanche into academic challenges you can never overcome. I’m worried that you will never achieve your potential.

I said I hated you because I’ve seen what you’re capable of, when you apply yourself. And what I hate is the idea that you’ll squander your natural talent. Already, you’re behind where I think you could be, if you tried even a little bit harder.

I said I hate you because while I recognize that there are parts of your brain that are completely outside of your control, I also see you as having a great deal of agency. I see you as a full person, and not a blank victim, defined exclusively by what’s wrong with you. You are not a marionette, controlled by your learning disabilities. I said I hate you, because I hate the choices you make.

I said I hate you because, after having known you merely two months, I fucking love you, as I love all your classmates who aren’t a constant pain in my ass. I hate that you have that much power over me, that you have forced me to care about you as much as I do. It’s annoying. You’re annoying. Fuck you.

Today you gave me a card with my name on it. You signed your name with hearts.

Then later, when I told you not to look at Sophia’s paper, you screamed at the top of your lungs. But you then stopped looking at Sophia’s paper, which means I’m making progress with you. A few weeks ago, you might have thrown your chair across the room, so enraged at being told what to do. Instead, you merely vocally expressed your displeasure—LOUDLY—then concentrated on your own work. The scream was part of your emotional self-regulating process.

Also, you screamed because you’re an obnoxious little cunt.

I showed the bartender the card you made me. He recognized your name, and he asked me, is that the cunt?

Yes, I told him. That’s the cunt.

I’m putting it on my fridge.

Cunt.

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, and paintings have been published both online and in print. Publications include Littoral Magazine, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Assignment Literary Magazine, Superpresent, Jelly Squid, redrosethorns, and Flash Frog. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.