I was in sixth grade.
I had burritos for breakfast every morning.
Bean and cheese burritos.
They were cheap, filling and tasty.
They also caused some digestive issues.
One day all the classes in our grade were in the gym for P.E.
At the end of P.E. we would sit cross-legged on the floor. We would sit quietly for a few minutes to calm down before going back to class.
It was silent.
That was when it happened. It echoed loudly off the hard floor and walls.
Everyone scooted away from me. Some laughing. Some making noises of disgust.
For the rest of the year my nickname was “Farting Philip.”
I stopped eating burritos for breakfast after that.
But the damage was done.
Thankfully I started at a different school the next year, and didn’t hear any more about it.
It must not have been that bad. I don’t remember hearing any complaints. Except for the teacher’s.
She asked my mom to meet with her after school. And to bring me.
She sat in the middle of her kidney-shaped table. My mom and I were on the other side.
I don’t remember much about that meeting. Just that she told my mom what I’d been doing and that it needed to stop.
Before school each class would make two lines. A line of boys and a line of girls.
I’d walk down the girls’ line and give them each a kiss.
I don’t remember exactly why I did it. I wasn’t in love with every girl in the class. At least I don’t think so…
I didn’t see a problem with it. I kissed my family members all the time. Even my grandpas.
I didn’t get in a lot of trouble. That’s probably because I stopped.
I didn’t kiss another girl for twelve years.
But that’s another story.