My fifth grade class was filled with mostly suburban white kids, and it seemed that our bloated, brutish, bigoted teacher preferred it that way. Those whose skin, eyes, and hair were the kind of brown that darkened his doorway got special treatment. And the fact that I remember it so vividly 33 years later means it was memorably special indeed.
This person, this alleged human who was charged with the enlightenment of young minds chose to take us on a path of verbal violence, inexplicable intolerance, and creative castigation. In addition to learning the capitals of the 50 states, we learned that an angered teacher could threaten to smash a misbehaving (or likely just mischaracterized) boy into the ground until all that was left was andIquote, “A small, black grease spot.”
Why write about this? Well, I just reconnected with one of the objects of Mr. Wheatley’s aggression, and he managed to pull himself handily out of that flattened pool of persecution. And Mr. W exposed himself years later as the barbarian he always behaved to be, when he was arrested in 2007 and earned a very special (greasy?) spot on the convicted sex offenders list.
Well done, sir. You know which one I mean.
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