Fear and Loathing in Biddeford

It’s been a crazy, hectic and somewhat emotional week.

On the work front, I was dealing with back-to-back significant news stories that took up a lot of my energy and time.

And — Laura chipped a tooth while eating a salad (Exhibit 104 of why you should avoid salads). The ensuing emergency dental visit put a nice little ding on the bank account.

We struggled with getting the camper ready for the season, and could not figure out why the battery was not charging. It’s fixed now. Also, the work week was evenly framed by two Saturdays of rain. Nice. I am already way behind on my outdoor chores.

And then there is always the plentiful criticism, the wailing and gnashing of teeth from people who are upset about me being one of the admins on the Biddeford + Saco Community Facebook page. What else is new?

But there was one thing that hit me much harder than expected this week. It was supposed to be a rather benign feature story about the closing of the JFK Memorial School in Biddeford.

My friend Liz Gothelf, publisher of Saco Bay News, was also there to cover the story, but I doubt that she experienced any of the emotional baggage that I felt walking back into that building for – presumably – the last time.

I would not be who I am today
if I didn’t shit my pants in the first-grade.

You see, I was a first and second-grade student at JFK, just before my parents bought their home in Saco.

Liz and I left the press event at the same time. On our way out, we spotted a large canvass hanging in the hallway. Apparently, it was used to take pictures of the students. The banner read: “Be Awesome Today! We Are So Proud of You.”

We simply could not just walk past that photo opportunity. We took pictures of each other under the banner before exchanging goodbyes in the parking lot.

I quickly walked back to my truck, trying to hold back the tears welling up inside of me. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying.

All I could think about in that moment was a little six-year-old boy so afraid of his surroundings and the teacher that he literally shit his pants instead of asking the teacher to use the bathroom.

It might be okay if that was an isolated incident. Accidents happen, more literally: shit happens. But this was just a symptom and sort of encapsulated how I continued living my life.

For as long as I can remember, I have always been afraid. Always.

I was afraid of the other kids. I was shy, terrified of gym classes with Mr. Stanley at Young School in Saco. I was terrified of storms, I believed my parents were intentionally trying to poison me.

This carried on into high school. I was a shy basket case. I went through the motions, almost completely disconnected from my classmates. In fact, you cannot find a photo of me in our senior yearbook.

It’s as if I was invisible, and that’s how I liked it.

The fear thing continued into my very brief stint in the Air Force and followed me to college and later as I rather aimlessly shifted about the country. In and out of psychiatric facilities in Arizona, Tennessee and Oregon.

Things didn’t really change until the late 1990s when I was hired by the Biddeford-Saco Courier. All of a sudden, I had both a purpose and a personality. A couple of years later, I met Laura.

Today, I am not afraid of public restrooms. I’m not afraid of the teachers or even the principal.

Almost 55 years later, I was telling the teachers and staffers where to stand and how to pose for the photo. People listen to me — and for reasons I do not understand – they seem to respect me.

I wish I could go back in time and tell that terrified, little boy that he doesn’t have to be afraid; that very good things are coming his way. I wish I could tell him, ““Be Awesome Today! We Are So Proud of You.”

But you know what?

I would not be who I am today if I didn’t shit my pants in the first-grade.

Randy Seaver is a cranky, nearly insufferable malcontent living in Biddeford. He may be contacted by email: randy@randyseaver.com

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