People Do Not Always Get What They Deserve

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 5^th 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 5^th 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.

I have no way of knowing what long-term effects this incident may have had on David, the other children, or even Mrs. Means herself.  I can only speak for my own lessons and there were several. Among them was this--ordinarily good people are capable of evil, particularly when we live in a society that reveres authority.