Story time
I wrote this last month while I was sick - it's still a bit rough, but overall I liked how it turned out. It's a few pages long, but if you've got the time, you may find it interesting. Hopefully. And it may have gone without saying, but just to be clear, the events that take place in this story are 100% true.
Fun Fair 1999. Santiago Christian Academy’s annual senior fund raiser event; the event that always promised a huge turnout of students, their families, and their friends, and made the small school of 90 seem like so much more than the handful of missionary kids that comprised it. While the school’s funds were paltry, the high schoolers responsible for running the various booths were eager participants and unfailingly put their souls into their preparation every year.
I enjoyed the Fun Fair because it took the focus off the serious, sombre nature that usually characterised our school. The teachers would relax their demerit-writing arms for a few hours and we’d all enjoy the last few moments of summer time together. There was always a joyful buzz in the air, composed of children playfully screaming, middle-schoolers running around the outdoor covered court, the splashing of the dunking booth in the distance and the mellow, yet upbeat music playing overhead.
I had a big job that year. I got to help the boys run the haunted house, which retrospectively seems like an odd feature for such a conservative institution, but I suppose it was tradition, from back when everyone was a little less uptight and a little more understanding. Hiding under a thick black blanket inside a broken refrigerator, however, became a stifling job after a while, so I gave myself plenty of breaks to breathe, grab some water, and play at the other booths.
My first break came before the sun was down, which was good timing for me, because I love the feel of the evening sun on my bare arms. Some other people didn’t understand the inherent joy I found in this and I noticed not shortly after I had come outside that I was getting some interesting looks from certain teachers and faculty. It was Mrs Treu who eventually confronted me on the topic of my chosen and apparently offensive attire - my tank top. Particularly the straps.
Excessive amounts of bare skin in the halls of SCA went highly unappreciated and usually resulted in a demerit for dress code violation - right up there with having an untucked shirt or wearing blue jeans. But my rationale was that after school it shouldn’t count, because if they can’t stop visitors from doing it, then how could they stop me? It still seems pretty logical.
“Bair…” Mrs Treu began. I tried hard not to smirk. I had been wondering if this issue would come up. “…it’s your shirt.” I gave her the most innocent look I could muster, which was probably pretty transparent. Refusing to respond, I gave her a few moments to elaborate on why exactly my shirt was becoming an issue.
“You see, some people here might find it offensive,” she explained after the awkward silence I had given her. “Maybe it would be a good idea to change, and not cause any trouble. Do you have any other clothes here?”
I thought about it. I had the shirt I had been wearing to school that day. I had my gym shirt. I had the shirt I had brought just in case this came up and I didn’t feel like being defiant, and I had a jacket - all stuffed in my locker somewhere, not more than 20 feet away.
“No,” I answered her with a straight face.
She frowned, either because she knew I was lying or because now I had made this her problem.
“I don’t know why you would wear something like that when you know it might offend people,” she said defensively.
“I didn’t think it would offend anyone,” I lied, “What’s so bad about it?”
“Well,” she huffed, “your….your bra strap is showing!” It really sounded like she was grasping for reasons, and that was the best she could come up with. I tried to feign understanding. Sure, I could pretend like I see how revealing a teeny bit of an undergarment could be considered a “stumbling block.” Or, at least that’s what she called it when she was fuming about lord knows what. I never listened to half of what the woman said.
But I got the important bits.
“My bra strap?” I repeated, “Okay, I can take care of that.”
Mrs Treu exhaled, relieved. “Good. Thank-you.”
“No problem!” I chirped as I bounced off to the girls’ room. If my bra strap was offending people, that could be easily remedied. I grabbed a stall and proceeded to take off my bra. I shoved it in my backpack with all my other clothes and strolled back outside.
Going braless felt great, I decided. I considered not ever wearing a bra again and even thanking Mrs Treu for making me see the error of my ways. She saw me wandering around a few minutes later and came rampaging toward me, like I had done something wrong or something.
“That is not what I meant!” she cried, trying to keep down the roar while maintaining intimidation. But no one is afraid of a forty-something English teacher.
“What?” I asked innocently, “I thought you wanted me to take my bra off.”
To this day, I still don’t get what her deal was. If she gave me any legitimate justifications for her reasoning, I must have missed it.
“Alright. Alright,” she was doing a good job staying calm, much better than many of my other teachers would have. Especially Miss Frankie, whose look of dignified horror was hilariously priceless. “I’ll just find you something to put over that,” Mrs Treu resolved.
“Okay, well, I have to go back to the haunted house now,” I said, not even trying to hide my indifference. My one regret is that I had to spend the majority of that night hiding in the school’s tool shed instead of proudly parading around bra-strap free in front of my teachers. But Mrs Treu’s small uproar was satisfying at the time.
Whenever I left the haunted house for a quick break, I was always confronted by Mrs Treu.
“Have you found something to wear yet?” she would ask.
“Nope, still asking around,” I’d answer her.
By the very end of the night, when most people had already gone home, she managed to catch up to me and give me a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt she had borrowed from one of my sister’s classmates. I was actually pretty annoyed at Sarah, to whom the shirt belonged, for ruining my fun. The only real incident occurred when Isaac was feeling his way around the dark haunted house and flung his hand around the corner, where I was hiding under a curtain. “Who’s there?” he asked, as his hand landed directly on my boob. “Uh, me,” I said, and we never spoke to each other again.
Resentfully donning the sweatshirt, I realized my fun was over, but aside from the cupping incident, it had actually been a pretty good night, and I received a much more outraged response than I had expected. All night long grown ups were whispering and staring, and classmates kept asking me “Are you really not wearing a bra?” Fun Fair tickets could never buy the amusement I garnered that night.
I had completely forgotten about it by Monday morning, until homeroom when classmates kept approaching me saying “I can’t believe you did that.” I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, it’s not like my shirt was see-through, but the conservative ones are always the most fun to shock. Mrs Treu walked by me during morning recess. I gave her a look.
“Are you still mad at me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand why I made you wear a shirt?”
“No.”
Those were probably the two truest words I had said to her all week.
“See me at lunch, please,” she said, and walked away. I was thinking that some people were making way too big a deal out of this.
Lunch hour eventually rolled around, and now I was mad at Mrs Treu first for making me change my clothes, then for making me waste valuable goofing-off time. I sat down at her desk.
“Blair, I know at your age that you want to wear the cute clothes…” and then something I wasn’t listening to, “…but it’s not always appropriate everywhere…” and I tuned her out again, and it continued as such for a few minutes.
“…I wear tank tops, too, but only when I’m at home…” okay, whatever, “…sometimes, I don’t wear a bra, either - “ whoa, woman, back up. Mrs Treu? Not wear a bra? I couldn’t even remember why I was there. All I could thing of was saggy old lady boobs jiggling around braless and free and after that, I just made the conversation as short as I possibly could.
“Alright. I understand now. I’m really sorry for the bother,” and ran out of the classroom as if I were running for my life. I really would have been okay not knowing that little tidbit of information, but such are the consequences of willingly breaking school policy.
Well, that, and the new handbook rule that was published in our weekly school newsletter that day.
“Students must now be dressed in attire appropriate for school while on campus at any time, including after hours. This includes spaghetti-strap shirts, and any other revealing clothing that could be found offensive by others. Discretion is up to SCA faculty and board members.”
I didn’t win a lot of popularity for that one, but the way I see it is it would have happened eventually. It’s nice to set a precedent. A standard for future generations, or classes, as the case may be. I like to think that I left a bit of a legacy there, and whether or not it was a negative one is irrelevant to me. It was the Fun Fair, right? I had fun. I don’t feel that anyone is justified in holding me and my offensive wardrobe against that.
Any and all comments are welcome, if you have any. Hope you liked it :)
Fun Fair 1999. Santiago Christian Academy’s annual senior fund raiser event; the event that always promised a huge turnout of students, their families, and their friends, and made the small school of 90 seem like so much more than the handful of missionary kids that comprised it. While the school’s funds were paltry, the high schoolers responsible for running the various booths were eager participants and unfailingly put their souls into their preparation every year.
I enjoyed the Fun Fair because it took the focus off the serious, sombre nature that usually characterised our school. The teachers would relax their demerit-writing arms for a few hours and we’d all enjoy the last few moments of summer time together. There was always a joyful buzz in the air, composed of children playfully screaming, middle-schoolers running around the outdoor covered court, the splashing of the dunking booth in the distance and the mellow, yet upbeat music playing overhead.
I had a big job that year. I got to help the boys run the haunted house, which retrospectively seems like an odd feature for such a conservative institution, but I suppose it was tradition, from back when everyone was a little less uptight and a little more understanding. Hiding under a thick black blanket inside a broken refrigerator, however, became a stifling job after a while, so I gave myself plenty of breaks to breathe, grab some water, and play at the other booths.
My first break came before the sun was down, which was good timing for me, because I love the feel of the evening sun on my bare arms. Some other people didn’t understand the inherent joy I found in this and I noticed not shortly after I had come outside that I was getting some interesting looks from certain teachers and faculty. It was Mrs Treu who eventually confronted me on the topic of my chosen and apparently offensive attire - my tank top. Particularly the straps.
Excessive amounts of bare skin in the halls of SCA went highly unappreciated and usually resulted in a demerit for dress code violation - right up there with having an untucked shirt or wearing blue jeans. But my rationale was that after school it shouldn’t count, because if they can’t stop visitors from doing it, then how could they stop me? It still seems pretty logical.
“Bair…” Mrs Treu began. I tried hard not to smirk. I had been wondering if this issue would come up. “…it’s your shirt.” I gave her the most innocent look I could muster, which was probably pretty transparent. Refusing to respond, I gave her a few moments to elaborate on why exactly my shirt was becoming an issue.
“You see, some people here might find it offensive,” she explained after the awkward silence I had given her. “Maybe it would be a good idea to change, and not cause any trouble. Do you have any other clothes here?”
I thought about it. I had the shirt I had been wearing to school that day. I had my gym shirt. I had the shirt I had brought just in case this came up and I didn’t feel like being defiant, and I had a jacket - all stuffed in my locker somewhere, not more than 20 feet away.
“No,” I answered her with a straight face.
She frowned, either because she knew I was lying or because now I had made this her problem.
“I don’t know why you would wear something like that when you know it might offend people,” she said defensively.
“I didn’t think it would offend anyone,” I lied, “What’s so bad about it?”
“Well,” she huffed, “your….your bra strap is showing!” It really sounded like she was grasping for reasons, and that was the best she could come up with. I tried to feign understanding. Sure, I could pretend like I see how revealing a teeny bit of an undergarment could be considered a “stumbling block.” Or, at least that’s what she called it when she was fuming about lord knows what. I never listened to half of what the woman said.
But I got the important bits.
“My bra strap?” I repeated, “Okay, I can take care of that.”
Mrs Treu exhaled, relieved. “Good. Thank-you.”
“No problem!” I chirped as I bounced off to the girls’ room. If my bra strap was offending people, that could be easily remedied. I grabbed a stall and proceeded to take off my bra. I shoved it in my backpack with all my other clothes and strolled back outside.
Going braless felt great, I decided. I considered not ever wearing a bra again and even thanking Mrs Treu for making me see the error of my ways. She saw me wandering around a few minutes later and came rampaging toward me, like I had done something wrong or something.
“That is not what I meant!” she cried, trying to keep down the roar while maintaining intimidation. But no one is afraid of a forty-something English teacher.
“What?” I asked innocently, “I thought you wanted me to take my bra off.”
To this day, I still don’t get what her deal was. If she gave me any legitimate justifications for her reasoning, I must have missed it.
“Alright. Alright,” she was doing a good job staying calm, much better than many of my other teachers would have. Especially Miss Frankie, whose look of dignified horror was hilariously priceless. “I’ll just find you something to put over that,” Mrs Treu resolved.
“Okay, well, I have to go back to the haunted house now,” I said, not even trying to hide my indifference. My one regret is that I had to spend the majority of that night hiding in the school’s tool shed instead of proudly parading around bra-strap free in front of my teachers. But Mrs Treu’s small uproar was satisfying at the time.
Whenever I left the haunted house for a quick break, I was always confronted by Mrs Treu.
“Have you found something to wear yet?” she would ask.
“Nope, still asking around,” I’d answer her.
By the very end of the night, when most people had already gone home, she managed to catch up to me and give me a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt she had borrowed from one of my sister’s classmates. I was actually pretty annoyed at Sarah, to whom the shirt belonged, for ruining my fun. The only real incident occurred when Isaac was feeling his way around the dark haunted house and flung his hand around the corner, where I was hiding under a curtain. “Who’s there?” he asked, as his hand landed directly on my boob. “Uh, me,” I said, and we never spoke to each other again.
Resentfully donning the sweatshirt, I realized my fun was over, but aside from the cupping incident, it had actually been a pretty good night, and I received a much more outraged response than I had expected. All night long grown ups were whispering and staring, and classmates kept asking me “Are you really not wearing a bra?” Fun Fair tickets could never buy the amusement I garnered that night.
I had completely forgotten about it by Monday morning, until homeroom when classmates kept approaching me saying “I can’t believe you did that.” I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, it’s not like my shirt was see-through, but the conservative ones are always the most fun to shock. Mrs Treu walked by me during morning recess. I gave her a look.
“Are you still mad at me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand why I made you wear a shirt?”
“No.”
Those were probably the two truest words I had said to her all week.
“See me at lunch, please,” she said, and walked away. I was thinking that some people were making way too big a deal out of this.
Lunch hour eventually rolled around, and now I was mad at Mrs Treu first for making me change my clothes, then for making me waste valuable goofing-off time. I sat down at her desk.
“Blair, I know at your age that you want to wear the cute clothes…” and then something I wasn’t listening to, “…but it’s not always appropriate everywhere…” and I tuned her out again, and it continued as such for a few minutes.
“…I wear tank tops, too, but only when I’m at home…” okay, whatever, “…sometimes, I don’t wear a bra, either - “ whoa, woman, back up. Mrs Treu? Not wear a bra? I couldn’t even remember why I was there. All I could thing of was saggy old lady boobs jiggling around braless and free and after that, I just made the conversation as short as I possibly could.
“Alright. I understand now. I’m really sorry for the bother,” and ran out of the classroom as if I were running for my life. I really would have been okay not knowing that little tidbit of information, but such are the consequences of willingly breaking school policy.
Well, that, and the new handbook rule that was published in our weekly school newsletter that day.
“Students must now be dressed in attire appropriate for school while on campus at any time, including after hours. This includes spaghetti-strap shirts, and any other revealing clothing that could be found offensive by others. Discretion is up to SCA faculty and board members.”
I didn’t win a lot of popularity for that one, but the way I see it is it would have happened eventually. It’s nice to set a precedent. A standard for future generations, or classes, as the case may be. I like to think that I left a bit of a legacy there, and whether or not it was a negative one is irrelevant to me. It was the Fun Fair, right? I had fun. I don’t feel that anyone is justified in holding me and my offensive wardrobe against that.
Any and all comments are welcome, if you have any. Hope you liked it :)