One morning in the mid-1990s, I was told that the previous week, a politician prominent decades ago in the area of my youth had died. This being just on the cusp of the internet, I headed for the library to check a regional newspaper for the details. I finished his obituary, then another immediately drew my notice. In this one, the combination of Briggs, the last name of a decedent, and the first name of Gloria, an adult they were "survived by," triggered something in me.
Based on that name combination, it was clear that the person listed as the surviving daughter of the late Mrs. Briggs had been an elementary school teacher of mine. She taught in our school only that one year, and I had seen neither hide nor hair of her in the more than 35 years since.
Not an iota of a reason existed why coming across her name would be a significant find, though I recalled with some distinctiveness that she had been an attractive blonde, smart dresser and confident, energetic speaker. Also, a bit abrupt and occasionally overwrought – but quite competent at her job.
And with that, she should have been out of my thoughts as I put the obituary section back with the rest of the nation's daily papers.
But the teacher wouldn't leave.
And in the coming months, as I found myself making regular searches for her name in city directories and newspaper archives, and rummaging through scrapbooks and drawers for my elementary school class pictures, it became apparent that she never had left. Not in three and one-half decades.
Though nine-year-old boys can have crushes on their 20-something teachers without it being anything troubling or mysterious, this wasn't a crush, even as appealing as most anyone would have described this woman. It was however, just a little troubling, and a mystery.
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STOP THAT, MISS BRIGGS!
Non-FictionNot all abuse is physical. Some is the result of psychological warfare. For 42 years, I seemed to be receiving coded messages that something was wrong. They came from seemingly likable billboard ads, pop songs and TV comedy skits. The queasiness, t...
