Lessons from the goat head incident
Goat heads are the crabgrass of the high desert. The low scraggly weeds are capable of taking over the surface of any neglected patch of dirt in days. Technically, the plant is known as Tribulus terrestris. In season, it puts out small pale yellow flowers. But the main event is a profusion of multi-spiked stickers that instantly attach themselves in great number to anything that moves. Which means that just as one doesn’t turn left on 19th Avenue in San Francisco, one does not go barefoot in Albuquerque.
Goat heads also come to mind in regards to certain regrettable behavior on my part in grade school. Memory serves that the following incidents took place in fourth grade. My teacher that year was Sr. Scary PMS, a true-to-life example of Jekyll and Hyde, if there ever was one. For 25 or so days out of the month, sister was her cheery passive aggressive self, smiling and chiding us to be good little soldiers for Jesus. But several days every month things went south. Then her internal chemistry went haywire causing her to be so angry and dysfunctional that she should have been placed in solitary confinement. Instead, she continued to teach our class.
On those frightening days sister was so out of her mind that she refused to speak to us. In place of actual instruction, the day’s assignments would be written on the front board by the time we entered the classroom first thing in the morning. Then Sr. Scary would stand in the front of the class with one of those long wooden pointers. When the bell sounded she would point to the first reading/assignment of the day by sharply whacking the board with the pointer.
The rest of the day would follow suit with sister smacking the board every time the bell rang to alert a new class hour. It goes without saying that one didn’t ask questions, much less talk in class. The bells for recess and lunch time were met with a mass exodus at light speed by the lot of us students. At lunchtime we’d gather in groups at various places around the playground. The topic of conversation was always the same. “What the hell is wrong with her?” Or variations thereof.
Fortunately, Sr. Scary’s insanity was temporary. One day we’d walk in and she’d be all smiles again like nothing had ever been amiss. It was all very biblical, like Jesus rising from the dead after three days. But at least he didn’t threaten people when he was in the tomb. There’s a lot to be said for that.
A quick note. Lest anyone get dangerously excited about my take on Sr. Scary’s condition, the prognosis was put forth many years later—as in decades—by one of my classmates from that year. She (classmate) had gone on to Stanford Medical School and had become an MD, with a successful career practicing family medicine. One time when we were having coffee, she pointed out how Sr. Scary’s behavior had a monthly pattern to it because the poor woman suffered from crippling PMS. Sadly, knowledge about PMS at the time was scant and treatment for it was non-existent. So sister had to carry on, which included teaching our class. Moving on.
A new student appeared at the beginning of the school year. Her name was Donna Pavleck. Donna’s family had moved to Albuquerque over the summer from somewhere in Texas. She was a lanky drink of water and at least a head taller than most of the boys in the class. Her school uniform hung on her like a set of ill-fitted drapes. Donna was pale-complected, not optimal for the local climate which did its best to imitate the surface of the sun for several months out of the year. She was also very pretty, with bright blue eyes and jet black hair that she wore in a cropped page boy. In the personality department, Donna was shy and generally kept to herself. I don’t remember her making many friends during the year. And whenever she had to speak in class, it was marked by the twang of a Texas accent.
I also managed to make some new friends that year, among them a certain Arthur Steeno. Arthur was the smartest, nerdiest, and dorkiest kid in my class. His dad was a scientist who worked at Sandia Labs. His mom was a teacher. In class, Arthur rarely spoke. But when Sr. Scary asked him a question—any question—he always knew the answer. And that amazed me given that he spent most of the time in class—always sitting in the back—filling his notebooks with pictures of rockets, aliens, and space ships.
Arthur was obsessed with everything having to do with space travel. He talked endlessly of the possibilities of other life forms on distant planets. No surprise that Arthur was an only child. His mother doted on him, but was probably secretly worried that he’d turn out to be as socially awkward as his dad. Mr. Steeno was like an older version of Arthur. He could almost always be found wearing a short-sleeve white dress shirt with a plastic pocket protector jammed with a half-a-dozen Bic fine points. But at least Arthur’s dad did adult things like smoke a pipe, read the paper, and fuss around in the garden on the weekends.
Arthur and I spent time after school doing random boy things like collecting rocks in the arroyos and torturing bugs. He was an expert at capturing ants and popping their heads off with his fingernails. It should be noted that black ants are easier to decapitate than red ants. The latter could sting you in an instant if you weren’t careful—which you fully deserved.
During recess, Arthur and I could usually be found at the farthest reaches of the playground plotting an interstellar invasion. One day we noticed Donna hanging out by herself away from all the other kids. Like a couple of junkyard dogs, we meandered over and tried to make conversation with her. It was beyond awkward. Donna clearly wanted nothing to do with us, and we were too clueless to realize it. After a few minutes, she excused herself and walked off. Arthur was miffed that our attempt at contact with the female of the species had ended in failure.
“She’s nothing but a goat head,” he said in frustration.
I must have agreed, dimwit that I was. Whatever the case, the name stuck.
From then on, we started calling Donna goat head. “Hey goat head, how’s it going?” “What’s up, goat head?” You get the idea.
At first, Donna was irritated. But in short order she started to ignore us, which is a hell of a lot more mature than calling someone goat head.
After a time, the goat head thing got old and we dropped it. But not before Donna gave me the business. One day after class let out she caught up with me as I was walking home. She stepped right in front me and got in my face.
“Why do you call me goat head?” she hissed, clearly pissed off.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “Arthur thought it was a good name for you.”
“Well, it’s stupid,” she said, “so cut it out.”
Mind you Donna was slightly taller than me. For several seconds, she just stared at me at close range.
Then I said “OK, we’ll stop it.”
“You better,” she replied with a menacing look and then stormed off.
I had a feeling she meant it. Despite her skinny frame, she probably could have kicked my ass. After all, when you’re a fourth grade boy, practically anything can kick your ass.
The next day I reported the events to Arthur. He was confused. “But we were only kidding,” he said.
“Yeah, but she didn’t know that,” I responded.
It was quickly agreed we would never call her goat head again. It was probably a good move given that we already had enough trouble to deal with in the form of Sr. Scary.
After that, I started saying hello to Donna on the regular. I didn’t try to talk to her, but just nodded and said hi. In time, she would almost smile and said hi back. By the end of the year, we could actually have a short conversation. And then the year was over.
I never saw Donna again. Her family moved away that summer. I think her dad was in the military and whatever top secret mission had made him drag his wife and kids to Albuquerque for the year had been completed. As for Arthur, I never ran into him again after I transferred to a public junior high in the middle of 8th grade. We would go on to different high schools. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he left the dust of New Mexico to attend MIT or Cal Tech, where he fulfilled dreams of designing rockets for interplanetary space travel.
From time to time, I think about fourth grade, Sr. Scary PMS, and how Arthur and I called some poor shy girl a dumbass name for no reason. It reminds me of how kids can be mindlessly cruel, especially when it comes to boys trying to figure out how to deal with girls. I also think about Donna. I have a feeling her lanky frame filled out at some point. Maybe she overcame her shyness and went on to be an actress or a lead singer in a band. Who knows? But I wonder if she ever thinks about fourth grade with the nun who went insane for several days every month, and the two complete morons who called her goat head.
As for me, I learned some valuable lessons from the goat head incident. First, that any attempts to communicate with girls should never involve calling them names or antagonizing them. Second, that maybe I should just be nice and try to talk to them like anyone else. I think it’s paid off. Otherwise, there’s just one last thing I want to say.
Donna, I’m sorry.
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