"The Zigger From Way Back: A Tale of High School Badassery" - Nicholas Taylor

I used to be awesome. You may not believe me but I was bad-effing-ass. I even said the word “effing” is a euphemism for, with reckless abandon as cool kids are wont to do.  But this story is about badass words of a different sort. The most cutting turns of phrasecontain no maledictions. The enemy’s heart is above his belt, and only the most elegant
invective will suffice.

My junior Honors English teacher, Robert Crawford, is Idaho’s former Poet Laureate. I know that because he reminded us every day, whenever he felt his authority had been challenged or simply desired a self-esteem boost. During our poetry section, he would speak of some literary device, then with feigned off-handedness mention that if we wanted
to see a great example of said device, we could always buy his book.

(It was self-published.)

One day, Crawford berated the class about our poor test scores, repeating the conventional
justifications of a lousy educator. “If you get bad grades it’s because you didn’t try, not
because I’m a bad teacher,” he groused, excusing himself from the only measure of his
effectiveness. Meanwhile, state governments conspired to strip teachers of their collective
bargaining rights, and nobody seemed too concerned.

My classmates were content to let the clock run out on his diatribe, practicing for their
futures as disgruntled employees and beleaguered spouses. As for me, I was and remain
to this day a proud malcontent. I’m counter-cultural, I’m a hipster, if you zig I’ll zag even
though I’m a zigger from way back. My heart racing with petulant elation, I raised my hand.

“This is English, our test scores are relative. They’re based entirely on your opinion. I can’t
argue my grade in Math because if I’m wrong, I’m just wrong. I could argue my test score
with you, but that would require I stay to talk with you and I really don’t like you that
much.”

Cue the collective gasp. I bathed in the electric silence, awestruck by my own magnificence.
Crawford stared at me, aghast at my audacity, my arrogance, and my unparalleled
badassitude. I returned his gaze, stone-faced, daring him to do… something. I hadn’t
thought that far. My only plan was to throw a match into the powder keg and laugh
hysterically, like an arsonist or Donald Rumsfeld.

“Okay,” he said, his voice colder than when he talked about writers more successful than
himself. “Does anybody else have an explanation for your low test scores?”


Crawford took my abuse lying down? Gotham was supposed to devour itself! The crafty
bastard refused my catharsis and won by a draw. I wanted him to hit me. I craved carnage!

To sink the knife in deeper, he gave me a B for the semester. In college, similar stunts
earned satisfying F’s from less calculating minds. For his masterstroke, my most hated
teacher taught me the only thing I learned in high school: sometimes, the only way to win is
not to play.