I was struggling in the parking lot of the garden center
today, trying to get four bags of mulch, paving stones, and a bale of pine
straw into a small car that was not meant to transport such things. I looked
up, in my frustrated state, and saw a face from my past—a face that is tied to an incident that has haunted
me for years and never fails to provide me with a sickish feeling in the pit of
my stomach whenever I think about it. That face was the face that I saw the
first time that injustice became a reality for me.
It happened in the 5th grade in Mrs. Means’ class. Mrs. Means’
name did not actually suit her. She was actually a reasonable person and, as far
as teachers went, I liked her. The fact
that this incident happened in her class made it even more unsettling. One expects injustice from those who have a
reputation for cruelty. When you experience it at the hands of a reasonable
person who you like, however, you feel that nowhere is safe and that’s how I
felt after that day.
His name was David and he was an outsider. He was short, somewhat
feminine, and just didn’t fit in. His hair was cut in a Little-Lord-Fauntleroy
sort of page boy and his fingernails were always untrimmed and dirty. I was
never mean to him but neither was I ever kind to him. This was 5th
grade, after all, and I was somewhat of an outsider myself. It never occurred to us outsiders that there
may be strength in numbers and perhaps we should all come together for mutual
support. Instead, we participated in the
treatment of one another as pariahs in hopes that one day things would change
and we would be outsiders no more.
I don’t remember the details of his transgression, but I do
know that he was never the sort to get into trouble or do anything that would
call attention to himself. Outsiders are
often like that. They keep their heads down and just do what needs to be done
to get through the day. Maybe he got up to sharpen his pencil without
permission or, in an unusual act of social interaction, spoke to a classmate
when we weren’t supposed to be talking.
Whatever it was, and however innocent and compliant he was at heart, an
example had to be set. If a line is
drawn in the sand and that line is crossed, no matter how unwittingly, punishment
had to be meted out. The discipline of
the entire classroom was at stake. Authority could not be undermined.
He was made to stand by his desk and hold out his tiny hand
with the dirty fingernails. I will never
forget the sickening sound of the stick meeting those tiny bones--thwack, thwack, thwack . His mouth gaped open in pain, yet his face
seemed to crumple at the same time. The class sat wide-eyed and in horror as
one of the most vulnerable among us was used to prove a point. And the point was well-made to me. People do not always get what they deserve.
This was not my first time witnessing corporal punishment,
but this time was different. There were
the Tom Sawyer types who often crossed paths with the stick. It was still uncomfortable
to watch. It was still wrong in my
eyes. Those boys—and it was always boys,
I never remember a girl being hit in elementary school—knew the risk that they
were taking and chose to take it. They
winced at the pain and then shrugged it off.
It was wrong but it was not personal.
It was not unjust. The majority
of us could not see ourselves in those mischievous boys. We could see ourselves in David.
So what lessons were taught in that classroom on that
day? “Always be on your guard, kids. I
am in charge of this classroom and you will be obedient. Even if you do not learn a stitch of English
or social studies, you will learn this. This could happen to any of one of you,
without exception. Do not relax for a moment and just be a kid. If you do, pain
and humiliation could be the price that you pay.”
Back in the parking lot at the garden center my eyes locked with David’s and I smiled. Did he recognize me? I don’t know. I don’t think
so. I can’t help but wonder how the
lesson taught in that classroom played out in his life. Did he even remember
it? Sometimes we have a way of burying painful experiences down deep, where we
no longer have to face them. Even though the memory may be buried, however, the
lesson taught tends to remain, as well as the pain associated with it.
