School

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Added: Mon. Aug 16, 2010 4:38pm

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One of the more regrettable moments in my life occurred when I was only twelve years old. As a sixth grader, I found myself trapped in that nether world--still a proud member of the He-Man’s Woman Haters Club, yet suddenly aware that the opposite sex offered an attraction far more alluring than being an easy target for the weekly dodge ball game.

One day after school my friend Louie had a “brilliant” idea. He said “Let’s wait until after dark. Then we’ll buy some pastel chalk, and write some nasty things about two of our female classmates.” Of course we really had a crush on these two girls and they liked us, but to admit to ourselves and our buddies our feelings would violate the spirit of the He-Man’s Women Haters Club, and probably make Alfalfa turn over in his grave.

I lived in the Bronx across the street from the school. As in most New York neighborhoods, everyone lived in an apartment building, and the schoolyard was the focal point for all youth activities.

That night Louie and I met as planned. Our stealth commando operation was underway. After securing our writing implements at the local candy store, we marched to the main entrance in front of the school. Working our way backwards from the school to the city street, we proceeded to use our imagination to make these two girls stars of our x-rated essay.

At first I was uncomfortable with this exercise, but I seemed to draw inspiration from Louie, who had no pangs of guilt and in a bizarre way was pretty creative. While we were writing on the asphalt, this exercise became a little tricky. Cars would speed up and down the street, and when there was a gap we would do our thing, keeping an eye open for oncoming cars. Our other enemy was time. Both of us had to get back home before our fathers returned from work. We finished our canvas. Satisfied that our work was complete, we scampered home.

That night I lay in bed and thought to myself, “What have I done? In the morning the entire school is going to read my vile words; the two girls are going to be humiliated; and I couldn’t even make up a lame excuse for my actions. I was a good kid. I never got into trouble. What was I thinking?”

Up to that point in my life, I had never asked God for anything, but I was desperate. I prayed for two things: forgiveness and rain. If God wouldn’t forgive me that was ok, but please let it rain, and wash away my words. I forget what I promised if He granted me this favor, but I’m sure it was substantial.

I lay in my bed for hours unable to sleep. Believe or not, in the middle of the night, I heard the sounds of thunder and eventually my window was being pelted with rain drops. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I told God that I would make good on my end of the bargain and closed my eyes, and fell asleep immediately.

The next morning I rushed out of the house and headed for school. The street was still wet, and puddles of water gathered in the low spots of the pavement. My heart practically leaped out of my chest when I saw students milling around the front of the school pointing to the street. I continued walking to the main entrance of the school. I kept thinking to myself that there was no way my words could still be on the ground. It was pouring last night. If last nights storm wasn’t the answer to my prayers, or some kind of divine intervention, what had occurred?

I tried to act as calm and collected as a twelve year old could be facing this type of predicament. I blended into the crowd and saw that last nights writings were slightly faded but sadly very visible. It took me awhile but I figured out that if we had written in white chalk instead of colored chalk, the rain would have washed the words and my problems away.

I was ashamed and embarrassed, but now a new emotion took center stage: fear. If the school found out what I had done, I probably would be expelled. If my parents got wind of my actions, my life was over; stowing away on a ship to Shanghai didn’t seem like a bad option.

During our first period class, Louie and I made eye contact. We didn’t need to say anything. Later in the boys’ room when we were sure no one was around, we stated the obvious. We knew that we were in big trouble. We vowed not to tell anyone what we did, and never admit our guilt. If one of us got caught, he would never give up the other person. We swore this oath and sealed our agreement by sticking our right pinkies in our mouths and then interlocking them. This tribal ritual signified the highest and most serious contractual agreement in the schoolyard. It by far trumpeted the more common, “I swear on my mother” promise, which was taken very seriously by the corresponding parties, but was not as close to foolproof as the wet pinkie handshake.

Before the day ended our teacher addressed the entire class. She said that she knew that one of the boys in the class wrote these terrible words. She declared that she was very disappointed and shocked that someone would treat his classmates in such a horrible way. My teacher went on to say that the person or persons responsible should see her after school, and admit their guilt, to save themselves from serious punishment.

I focused my eyes on my teacher; no way was I going to avoid eye contact and thus appear guilty. I wanted to sneak a glance at Louie, but I knew that if the teacher caught me the game was over. The school day came and went with no one visiting the teacher and confessing his guilt.

During the next three days, our teacher started class by repeating her earlier plea. Each day her voice sounded more and more hostile. Finally on Friday our teacher addressed the class and said, “I have had enough. If the individual doesn’t come forward now, I will identify him and he will be expelled from school.”

My pangs of guilt over my actions were now a low level priority. I was in survival mode, and believe it or not, feeling some what cocky. I thought to myself, “C’mon, she’s bluffing. She has no clue who did this crime. This is her final desperate act, and when no one steps forward, this ugly episode will become a faded memory.”

Again no one admitted guilt. She threw up her arms and said, “You have now sealed your own fate.” She then proceeded to handout these little yellow pieces of scrap paper to all the boys in the class. She then asked all of us to write the name Rose Ann on the paper. Rose Ann was one of the two young ladies who were victims of our barbs. I remember thinking, “How lame is this? Obviously, she is going to compare the handwriting on the paper with the handwriting on the street. All I have to do is make a few slight changes and I am home free.” All the boys followed her instructions and turned their papers back in.

In the afternoon, we had physical training, which consisted of playing punchball in the schoolyard. During the game, my teacher called me over. Before I could open my mouth, she said, “Pat I’m shocked that you wrote those horrible things. You would have been the last boy that I would have suspected.” I was stunned, but I wasn’t going to admit to this crime unless they could produce irrefutable video evidence. “Me? I shrieked, I didn’t do anything.” I tried to continue with my denial speech, when my teacher quickly interrupted me. “Don’t make matters worse for yourself, Pat. I read the yellow papers and I knew it was you immediately. You not only misspelled Rose Ann, but you weren’t even close. I had no comeback. I was toast.

She asked me why I did it, and whether anyone else was involved. I was honest and contrite. I took responsibility and didn’t give up my friend. After all, why should I drag him down? At least he was a good speller.

Several days later, I found myself at the front of the class apologizing to my classmates, the two girls, and their mothers. After that humiliating experience, I waited for the teacher to call my parents into the school and explain to them why I was being expelled.

Miraculously, this never happened. My parents never found out about my misdeeds. The teacher either figured out that the punishment fitted the crime, or took into account that I had never been in trouble before, or didn’t want to have on her conscience the punishment that my father would dole out to me. What ever her reasons, she gave me a second chance, and for that I will always be grateful.

Thanks to the powers of the internet, forty-four years later a friend and fellow grade school classmate made contact with the very same teacher of this story. He asked her if she remembered me. She said, “Sure Pat was a lovely boy.” My friend made dinner reservations in Manhattan for three former students and their wives, our teacher, and her husband.

I had mixed feelings about our encounter. I was very excited to meet a teacher who had really made a difference in my life, not only for how she handled my graffiti crime, but for her ability to teach students and extract potential that had previously remained dormant. On the other hand, if she remembered me, then she must have recalled the ugly incident for which I was responsible. After forty-four years, I was still ashamed of what I had done.

Luckily, my infamous story did not come up in conversation. It was obvious to me that she had no recollection of the event. It was a truly memorable night; one that with the greatest of planning can not be duplicated or surpassed.

I sent my teacher a copy of my first book, Has Anyone Seen My Reading Glasses? She wrote me back and told me how much she enjoyed the book. She said she remembered me as being a very nice boy, who was quite an athlete, but seemed genuinely surprised that I had the ability to write such a book.

In an ironic twist of fate, she pointed out that their was several grammatical mistakes, and a number of misspelled words that should be corrected as soon as possible.

Thank you Mrs. Mildred Schwartz; I speak for the many students that you have taught over your career. You have made a difference, and in the end isn't that something that we would all like to have on our life's resume.