I really wasn't planning on telling the whale story today and I apologize in advance if you are bored to tears by it or if you really really love whales, but please know that this is taking monumental effort on my part to tell. I mean, look at the horrible coherence of this post so far and you will clearly see that my thinking is tangential at best.
Anyway, back to sixth grade. I was a somewhat normal 11 year old starting fresh at the middle school. (Side note: When I was growing up there was a middle school AND a junior high and you went to both (middle school for 6-7th grade, Jr. High from 8-9th). I thought this was perfectly normal, but apparently elsewhere they just have one or the other. That's what you get when your high school is 60 years old and has more portables than actual building I guess) So there I was collecting moodies and figuring out how to work a locker like everybody else.
(These are moodies and they were more popular than anything since pogs when I was in middle school. Funny when you think about it. I mean, what could be more ironic than expressive little emoticons that tell you exactly what they are feeling being popular among the angsty non-communicative adolescent set that makes up 98.4% of the middle school?)My best friend and I were super psyched that we had our English class together and our teacher seemed pretty cool. She even let us choose our own seats! This was unheard of in the elementary school. So of course we sat next to each other.
We didn't think much of it when our first writing assignment was to be about whales. And because we would all be writing about whales we would use some of our class time to learn about whales. No problem there. Less research to do on my own.
Now, up until this point my feelings about whales could best be described as apathetic. They were ok, but not something to obsess about like the Backstreet Boys (which of course I did, even going so far as to develop a crush on a boy I barely knew who happened to look like my favorite Backstreet Boy. Poor guy.)
But as the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months we continued to learn about whales. The right whale. The sperm whale. The orca. The narwhal (which is pretty much the only whale that I can still stand today, due to a hazy understanding of evolution that lead me to believe that they had descended from unicorns who were too proud to get into Noah's ark and thus had to learn to swim pretty quickly.)
(And really, how could they not be related? I love this picture)We learned about the various uses of whale byproducts in the 1800s. We learned about what they ate (Krill. That's it. Stupid whales. They're like the koalas of the sea, with their exclusive diets of only one thing). We learned about how big they were, where they lived, how they gave birth, how they breathed, how they used echolocation, what their favorite colors were, who they had a crush on... no wait, that was me and best friend Chelsy. Anyway, we learned a whole lot about whales. We even went out to the parking lot and measured out the actual size of various whales and drew them with sidewalk chalk.
Finally, after several terms of learning about whales, of creating flashcards about whales, of turning in draft after draft of papers about whales, I had had just about enough. My apathy had slowly began to bubble into a deep dislike within my soul. Chelsy felt the same way. When the teacher began class one day with another diatribe about whales for the zagbillionth time Chelsy raised her hand and when called upon stated simply, "I hate whales."
Over 12 years later, I still have not forgotten the look on the teacher's face. It was as if Chelsy had slaughtered a puppy in front of her. She stood there with a look of complete and utter shock, unable to say a single word.
Now, I am a pacifist at heart so despite my dislike for the whales I tried to smooth over the apparent horror that Chelsy's statement had caused.
Me: I think what Chelsy is trying to say is that it is getting a little boring learning about whales after so much time and maybe we should...
Chelsy: No. I hate whales. I really do. That's all.
Me: I mean, hate is a strong word, so maybe she just means....
Chelsy: I. HATE. WHALES!!!!
Me: Ummm...
Teacher: Stunned silence
Jenny (Stupid artsy-fartsy superfake girl in English class): You know, whenever I start to get a little bored with learning about whales I just stop and think about what amazing creatures they are and how they can do so much and blah blah blah, defense of the whales, I'm a teacher's pet and am incapable of speaking in a normal way, instead choosing to articulate random syllables unnecessarily and pause for dramatic effect.
I don't remember exactly what happened after that. The rest of the day was kind of a blur as the dislike in my soul boiled over into pure, unadulterated hatred of the stupid whales and the utter inability of anybody in the class to see them for the floating blobs of lard that they are.
Even after all these years I still dislike them. It is probably misplaced hatred and what I really should hate is the essential brainwashing of an entire 6th grade class. I don't think Save The Whales International could do a better job of recruiting whale lovers than that 6th grade teacher did. (Maybe she was secretly working for them. Although, landlocked Utah is a strange place to do undercover whale lover brainwashing...)
Anyway, that is why I stand today with Tim Calhoun of Saturday Night Live as he says, "I like whales, but they have to go. I will organize a whaling party that will not stop until all the whales are dead."
And Nelson Munce of Simpson's fame as he proclaims "Nuke the Whales. Hey, you gotta nuke something."
(Okay, so maybe I am not that twisted and cruel. But if you ask me to go whale watching with you after this, I will slap you. And I will do the same thing and worse to any Russians who try to kill me. Just saying.)
