When I was in kindergarten, it was rampant. You couldn't walk down the hallway without fear of catching it. And back then, there was no medicine to take. If you weren't "on base", you were a sitting duck.
People were afraid to admit they were infected. I doubt anyone reported it. Who would you tell? The nurses? They had their own agenda. They didn't want to hear it. If you tried to get help, you were laughed at. The stigma was worse than the disease.
This is from a conversation I had with my father about perhaps one of the least talked about public health issues confronting our nation: Cooties
If you think it can't happen to you, you're wrong. In fact, chances are, you're infected. But there is hope. I should know, I'm a Cooties Survivor. More below the fold...
Here are my stories:
I was six years old, in first grade at a public school in Newark. But I was a cute little bastard. It was the one point in my life where I was a hit with the ladies.
I had a brief romance (as romantic as six-year-olds can get) with a girl named Andrea. One recess, as we were playing outside on the blacktop, Laura Berkley, a snotty redheaded monster stretched out her freckly hand -- her index finger extended menacingly -- to Andrea and chased her around the playground. She taunted her as she chased, chanting "I'm gonna give you cooooooties! I'm gonna give you cooooooties!"
Andrea was valiant in her effort to avoid this horrific attack, but running was not her strong suit. She eventually was touched by Laura Berkley, instantly infecting her.
I thought nothing of this, until later that afternoon, just before lunch she and I were holding hands on our way back to the cafe-torium. Little did I know that this was the moment the Cooties spread to me, too.
During lunch, as I ate the Chef Boy-ar-de Beef Ravioli from my Thermos Bowl, I started getting horrific stomach pains. I asked Lunch Lady Linda to be excused to the nurse's office. The cooties were surely now ravaging my digestive system, and at a dizzying pace. I must have looked green, because Linda let me go.
I realized that I was about to hurl, and double-timed it down the hallway to the nurse, but it was too late. Before I could slow down, I had the good sense to turn my head before regurgitating the partially digested ravioli in front of the main office.
The nurse called my mother. This is where the cover-up began. The nurse, desperate to play down any rumors of a Cooties outbreak, blamed my illness on the change in weather and bad Ravioli. I wanted so much to tell my mother the truth, that little bitch Laura Berkley infected Andrea, but the shame was just too much.
As Mom and I walked down the hallway to the car, we passed by the head janitor, cleaning up the yard-long puddle of Ravioli. As his disgusted gaze met mine, I could tell he knew. Maybe it was just paranoia. But something told me... he knew I had Cooties...
.......................
That brings us to today: I've been outbreak free for years. Sometimes it's tough to bring up with a new partner. I'm ashamed to say that I've had relations with women without being forthright about my Cooties status. In all likelihood, I've spread Cooties to others. I'm not proud of that. But if I can forgive Chef Boy-ar-dee, then hopefully those I've given Cooties to can forgive me.
We need to get a dialogue going if we are ever going to wipe out this silent killer. Okay, "killer" might be a stretch, I don't think anyone's died of Cooties since the 20s. But we need a national discussion if we're going to move forward as a civilized nation.
I look forward to hearing stories of other Cooties survivors. You are all beautiful people.
[UPDATE:] I mean beautiful on the inside. Obviously you're not all beautiful on the outside. Some of you have gotta be real dogs, by the laws of probability.