Usually? (or I must not shove my foot…)

Nowadays when either of our kids calls and asks to speak to me it’s almost never to see how I’m doing; in a strange but much appreciated way it’s to see how they are doing. Everyone needs a little perspective from time-to-time and for reasons all their own, that’s my job. Let me add, it’s not like I sit around waiting for one of them to call, but I’m happiest when they do.

Enter Anna. My God-as-my-witness-Heaven-sent granddaughter makes me glad I’m still alive; so when I got a text message about something that happened at her school, I was more than happy it included the line: So Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to ask you your opinion on all this and what you thought her decision as a teacher was/came from. Mom said you’re usually good at teacher stuff. (Usually? Why I oughta…)

When I was a kid every once in a while my mother would reference a tiny, little incident, that obviously wasn’t nearly as insignificant as it appeared. Without much detail, her story goes like this: In Patterson High School in the early 1940’s, there was a teacher who would assign “sentences” in response to misbehavior. (Do you remember “sentences”? I do. Unlike my dear, departed mother, I had loads of opportunities to acquaint myself with them.)

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

I must not chew gum.

Anyway, Ruth Osterman found herself on the wrong end of this particular teacher’s ire, and, according to the story, she was assigned the task of filling page after page with “sentences.” Here’s the thing: her memory was not sustained by her misbehavior or even by some miscarriage of justice. She didn’t remember writing sentences because of something she did; she remembered it so vividly because of something she did not do (or more correctly, something she was encouraged not to do.) Upon the advice of others with far more experience with such things, she was advised to fill out the front page as instructed, but to fill only the top half of all remaining pages because, as her friends assured her, the teacher would only review the rest of the pages by "thumbing" the tops of the pages.

At first glance Anna’s text message was conspicuous by its length. As a champion-Twitter devotee, she is a master of inference, so I knew that by virtue of the length alone, Anna’s story—much like Ruthie’s year’s ago—was not about misbehavior, not by a long-shot.

Here’s the skinny: the theater tech crew was directed to do something. Without the proper tools to accomplish the task, they improvised. As they made accommodations (as, I might add, tech crews are trained to do) laughter ensued. If I understand the story correctly, the teacher’s assessment of the “misbehavior” included some level of personal affront—hey, aine nobody likes to be laughed at,  right?

Anna’s message to me detailed the crime and also included visual evidence of the punishment: three handwritten pages copied from a textbook. (I’ll wait for you to reread the last part because by now you are sure you missed something. Let me save you three minutes—you didn’t. The punishment, apparently announced in anger, was to open a textbook and start copying, with the addendum that the next day’s lesson plan would be more of the same.)

Whenever Ruthie told me about “writing sentences” it was always about how anxious she was while considering her friends’ advice and worst of all that her parents would find out. My mother NEVER told her parents about the crime or the punishment. Anna told her parents and her dear, ole granddad before the ink had dried on the copied pages.

Ruthie worried most of all that the teacher would skip protocol and closely examine every page, and poor Ruth would go down in Clipper history as the one kid who ruined the good thing for the rest of the sentence-writing juvenile delinquents.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

It was never about the misbehavior.

Decades later, the thrill that anxiety always creates was as apparent as if the sentences had been due the next day.

Before I responded to Anna I looked back at the message to make sure I was answering the right questions: So Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to ask you your opinion on all this…

My answer was: Your mother knows my opinion. Your mother has the same opinion. She wants you to hear it (again) from me. People who use words as punishment are working against the rest of us who are trying to get kids to love them.

I told her some other things, too. I told her that I should reserve judgment because as many, many (insert many “manys” here) of my students have known all too well; teachers sometimes lose their composure. (I think there’s a Biblical story about casting stones…)

I told her how easy it is to react emotionally. I should have told her how easy it is to forget that young teachers sometimes make regrettable mistakes. I should have told her how easy it is to forget that teachers are human…

Instead I told her how easy it is for me to want to shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

I must not shove my foot up the teacher’s ass.

(I’ll wait for you to reread the last part because by now you are sure you misunderstood, let me save you a little time—you didn’t. It might sound like I’m kidding, but as Ruthie said many, many times “many a true word is spoke in a joke.”)

It’s just too easy to react emotionally.

Just as easy as it is to pass judgment.

Just as easy as it is to forget that the punishment has to fit the crime.

Just as easy as it is to forget that words must never be used as punishment.

Just as easy as it is to miss a teachable moment when it presents itself.

Just as easy as it is to misinterpret the behavior of silly-acting high school girls.

Just as easy as it is to give away months of hard-earned credibility in a few angry sentences.

Just as easy as it is to damage developmentally vulnerable children.

Just as easy as it is to take a deep breath.

Just as easy as it is to clarify expectations to the same dedicated theater tech crew who have served you anonymously without the glow of spotlights or the applause of appreciative audiences at performance curtain calls.

Just as easy as it should be to forgive the people you serve.

Just as easy as it should be to apologize, to smile, and to get back in the game.

It is just as easy to react emotionally as it is to copy sentences over and over.

***

Ruthie's teacher held the pages she had submitted just long enough to flip the tops of the pages before filing them in the bin. 

Ruthie held on to them for the next 60 years.