Cruelties Received: Shannon Shelton

Shanon Shelton was a spacious woman with perma-flared nostrils like a crazed Spanish bull. She didn't like the word "No." She didn't like it when I spoke words. Her mother was the day care director at the small Baptist church, which had to account for her continued employment there. One day in her dominion --a dirty dining-hall sized spaced called "The School-Age Room"-- I said some word or words to the effect of "No." Shannon's visionary gift of punishment was poured out on me. She hoisted my fifty pounds up onto a rickety fold-up table and ordered me to lift my arms up in full cruciform. I complied. Then she ordered all the other children in the room to point at me and laugh. They all joined in without hesitating, and the laughter-on-demand seemed surprisingly authentic. I stood there and cried and when my arms started to hurt, I jumped down off the table and ran out of the room, upstairs to be comforted by my mother, the church secretary. I remember fantasizing about Shannon's death, though I don't remember if I was the one killing her. I probably didn't think I could kill her. She seemed to me like an invulnerable Final Boss who, even after you've launched several rockets into their face, just won't die. She still works at the daycare, but she has her own kids now. I'm sure she's gotten softer.