Today’s Facebook “Add a Friend” Suggestion really rattled me.
It was HER.
THAT GIRL.
THE ONE WHO RUINED SECOND GRADE.
Here’s how it went down. It was a sunny day in Mr. Martin’s class. We were quietly working at our desks after recess. Everything seemed to be going along fine. He was a cool teacher, one of the best.
Then Mr. Martin asked for our attention. “I see that someone has thrown the classroom scissors in the toilet.” He frowned and scanned the room, surveying our little faces. “Who was it?”
We all sat there silently. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself, What kind of person would put our scissors in the toilet? I couldn’t imagine. That was so WRONG! It must not have been intentional. Did they fall out of a pocket? Was the individual experiencing difficulty separating a piece of toilet paper from the roll? Perhaps the student had realized they’d forgotten to cut the McCurdy’s tag off their romper, and the scissors slipped out of their little hands.
Mr. Martin glared and said sternly, “I will ask you One. Last. Time. Who put the scissors in the toilet?”
It was a tense situation. At first, my classmates and I looked at each other with that innocent “It wasn’t me. Was it you?” look on our faces. That was immediately followed by scowling at each other with the look “It wasn’t me, and you had better tell him it was you.” But nothing.
Mr. Martin: “Everyone’s heads down on their desks until I get a confession.”
All us seven-year-olds had our heads on our desks FOR HOURS that day. HOURS. Today, can you picture a seven-year-old keeping his head on his desk for more than five minutes? Or a teacher being allowed to force it in the first place? Listen, in 1975 you kept your head on your desk, no questions asked.
You’d think after a little bit, the person would feel bad for their fellow students, and confess. Nope. I considered submitting a false confession to get it over with, but I was a Good Girl (back then) and no one would have bought the story.
To his credit, Mr. Martin did not give in. When the end-of-school bell rang, we gleefully grabbed our bookbags and got out of there.
Once outside, I found out who the perpetrator was—and that she had done it on purpose. But no one was a tattletale back in those days, and Mr. Martin never did find out who it was.
You know, upon reflection, I think that Scissors day made me a stronger person. It was when I first learned to endure extended suffering, an invaluable skill. OK, sure, I’ll Friend her!
Once she confesses to Mr. Martin, that is.
