Stories part 1 (aka Let People Tell Their Own Story)

I hear you.

What do you mean ‘part 1’? What’s going on?!

Don’t worry, lovely, I will explain.

The day before Halloween, I was at work, handling some students. I was not having a good day, not because of the students, but because of my brain. It happens. For homeroom, I had some free time after they completed what they needed to. They spent that free time playing with scissors that were in a basket on their desks. This freaks me out, seeing children, any age, messing with scissors. With scissors, in general, actually. So I told them a story.

It was a horror story from my childhood. About scissors.

Anyway, the story freaked them out, and they stopped playing with scissors. And for the rest of the day, whenever they came back and saw non-homeroom students messing with the scissors they would stop them, warning them about ‘the scissor story’.

Now, here’s the thing: I don’t tell a ton of people this story.

I keep it to myself. Actually, in general, I keep stories to myself. I don’t enjoy when other people share my story without telling me. I share stories on this blog, obviously, but this is me sharing it to you. The written word on my website is permission to share. However, if I tell you a story in person, I don’t like the gossipy nature of telling my story.

I told this story only to the homeroom students. Perhaps it was my naivety, but I was expecting the students to keep the story to themselves, especially since it freaked them out so much.

We get to the final hour. My panic is high. An attack is imminent. My anger is rising. My grasp on the situation is slipping. And these students, rowdy and loud, are not helping. They finished their task early, and I was hoping they would just hang out for the remaining time so I don’t snap. Instead, one of the homeroom students asks if I can tell ‘the scissor story’ again. I asked the rest of the class, who all said yes.

I sit at the front and say, “This story is about why you do not mess with scissors. Do you still want to hear it?” A couple of girls said no. And, not wanting to scar some children, said I would not tell the story unless every student wanted to hear it. As I stood up, the loudest boy yelled that he wanted to hear the story. Before I could say anything to him, one of the homeroom boys turned around and shouted a one-sentence, spoiler-included summary. All the students groaned or exclaimed.

*snap*

I, as calmly as possible, scold him. Others didn’t want to hear the story, and it was not up to him to share it. I did not tell him he could share my story, and in a piss-poor fashion as well. The students looked at me in silent shock. Then the bell rang, and they escaped.

As soon as they left, my angry panic attack went into full-swing. But that’s for another time.

My stories are part of me, just as your stories are part of you. Seek permission before you spread something that is not yours.

Hugs

Alexandra

P.S. The part 2 to this will be the actual ‘scissor story’, to be out on Wednesday. And because I am writing, as I said before, this is my way of permitting sharing. It’s on a public site, so no worries.

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