The word sophomore means wise-fool in Greek. As a sophomore in high school, the latter half of the definition was true for me…
On the first day of English class in 1978, I sat with my friends in the corner of the room by the window. There were four of us side by side, whispering and laughing. For two days we ignored the teacher and talked among ourselves. It promised to be a great year, but things changed on day three.
Mrs. Seay (pronounced C) was nervous, energetic, and wore large glasses. On the third day of class, Mrs. Seay broke up our corner and gave the whole class assigned seats. My new seat was across the room next to people I wasn’t nearly as comfortable with.
Next to me was James (not his real name). He was quiet, nicely dressed, and his hair was combed and cut to regulation. In front of him was Kim Evans, and in front of me was Michelle Robinson, two attractive girls. Kim was a cheerleader; Michelle was a genius. I wasn’t used to sitting beside girls, especially ones of their caliber.
One day while teaching, Mrs. Seay stepped away from her podium and went to her desk. With her back turned, I loaded a rubber band with a paper wad and shot it across the room. It landed against the back wall with a thud. The boys across from me returned fire, filling the air with confetti.
Mrs Seay turned around to face us, and the class fell silent.
“Mickey McDaniel…go to the office!”
Up until that moment, I thought of Mrs Seay as more of a grandmother-figure than a teacher, but now she singled me out. Suffering is easier in a group, but I held true to the creed of manhood and walked out of the classroom alone, doing my best impression of Gary Cooper in High Noon.
The office was across the hall. I stepped in and announced myself. The secretary was unimpressed. She told me to have a seat. I was the only one there, but I would have to sweat it out for at least 10 minutes; the time necessary to meditate on my transgressions.
Our principal was Bill Maclin, a coach who worked out regularly. His hair was blond, and he parted it across his head like a comb over, but he wasn’t bald. He didn’t smile and according to rumor, he could swing a paddle like Johnny Bench swung a bat.
My quiet meditations changed my attitude, but it was too late, and I wasn’t sorry for what I did, just for getting caught.
A lower classman walking down the hall saw me in the office. He stepped to the side of the door frame, out of sight of the secretary, and whispered, “What are you in for?”
“Paper wads...”
“A-h-h-h man. Not that...”
The door opened, and the big guy appeared. He stared over the top of his glasses and waved me in. He asked why I was there. Of course, I had no idea. Without wasting a second of time with an investigation or lecture, he took his paddle from a nail in the wall and told me to bend over and grab my ankles. I braced myself, keeping my knees bent to keep from being knocked into the bookshelf.
The first blow stung like a wasp and caused my ears to scream. I was instantly sorry.
I preferred to get my punishment over with quickly, but it was severe. Before I could catch my breath, the hammer dropped again. Now I was sorry for every sin I ever committed. Before I could recover, the third blow fell like lightning, and I was reduced to tears.
Without a drop of sympathy, Mr Mac raised his left eyebrow and squinted his right eye. “Go to class and straighten up.”
That was it, in less than 60 seconds. I hated the old man, but inside I knew I got what was coming to me. He was teaching me a lesson on disobedience and justice, but it would take years for the lesson to sink in. Mr Mac didn’t play, but he never made fun of me.
There was no time to lick my wounds. My classroom was only a few steps away. The secretary heard what happened in Mr Mac’s office. When I came out, she smiled for the first time that day. I hoped she wouldn’t call my mother and tell her what happened.
I stepped into the hall, pulled out my handkerchief and dried my eyes. Dragging my feet, I took a deep breath, and walked to the classroom with my tail tucked between my legs. I limped in and took my seat without looking up.
James sat next to me in English. I knew him for years, but we weren’t friends until that year. He was quiet, but thanks to the seating arrangement, we talked every day. He was polite and mature, and grades were no problem for him.
Every kid spends their school years looking for an identity. Years earlier, my brother, who thought manhood was all about speed and strength, told me the toughest guys in school were wrestlers. When I reached high school, the logical thing for me was to join the wrestling team, but James found his identity in a different way.
James and I played baseball on the same team when we were kids. I thought he was better than me, but he gave it up in junior high. Most kids experiment with alcohol, but James told me it wasn’t for him. Instead, he found something better. I was surprised when he told me he smoked marijuana.
I thought kids who smoked marijuana were rebellious, aimless, and apathetic, but James was none of those things. He was one of the most responsible kids I knew. He told me he and his friends in the neighborhood met in the woods behind his house after school and smoked marijuana, and it was the best time of his life. It didn’t make him lose control, forget things, or break the law. Instead, it removed his inhibitions, helped him be himself, and even helped him think. James made it sound adventurous. He was smart, well behaved, and didn’t get in trouble at school. Maybe marijuana wasn’t as bad as I thought.
Every day James told me about his experiences, and I began to envy him. He asked me to meet him after school. One afternoon in March, I met him in the woods behind his house.
It was prematurely warm and windy; one of the first nice days after winter. I found James just like he promised, with three of his friends climbing on a giant, uprooted tree that was leaning against another tree. There was a rope tied to a tall branch, and they were swinging from it. I climbed up the tree and swung on the rope with them. James was an introvert at school, but at home, he was adventurous and a leader. His friends quickly became my friends.
When we finished swinging, James pulled out a joint from the base of the tree where he had hidden it earlier. He lit it and passed it around. I was having the best time I had in a long time, and I didn’t see how getting high could make it any better. The boy next to me offered me the joint, but I waved him off. It was enough to just hang out with friends and have fun, but my abstinence was unwelcome. The fun was over. I was no longer a part of the fraternity. Now I was an unwelcome stranger and potential whistle blower. James and his friends left me sitting on a stump. I went home thinking I was a failure.
After being humbled by Mr Mac’s paddle, I determined I would never feel that kind of pain again, and I was true to my promise. However, one day Mrs Seay sent me to the office again for more foolishness.
I swaggered out the door like before and shut it loud enough to defy but not so loud it would cause me additional grief. I knew my sentence, and there was no reprieve, so instead of going to the office, I ducked low past the doorway to hide from the secretary and sprinted down the hall to the locker room by the gym. The PE class was outside playing softball, so it was empty. I pulled off my shoes and pants, opened my PE locker, and got two pair of gym shorts and a towel. I threw on the shorts, and to be safe, tucked the towel between the shorts. I redressed, ran back to the office, and walked in nonchalantly. My detour took less than three minutes.
“You again?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She buzzed Mr Mac. “Mickey McDaniel is here from Mrs. Seay’s class…again.”
Ten minutes later, the big guy appeared. He looked taller, and his jaw was tighter than usual. He asked why I was there. I had no idea.
Having failed to correct my behavior the first time, he was compelled to make a better impression and correct my waywardness. I received the full wrath of the Principal, but due to the padding, it was pain free, and the usual smack of the paddle when slapped across my tender arse was reduced to a thud. It was so obvious, I was afraid he noticed, so I wiped my eyes and limped out of the office. When I got to the hall, I picked up my step, stuck out my chest, and returned to class as Gary Cooper.
I once thought Mrs Seay existed to keep me from having a good time, but by the end of the year, my attitude changed. Despite my resistance, I was learning. Grammar started making sense, and I appreciated good literature.
The last week of school, Mrs. Seay wrote in my yearbook in script handwriting. “Mickey, You are a sharp guy with great intelligence. I will continue to watch your life with great interest as you decide what to do with your future. God bless! Mrs. Seay, Jeremiah 33:3.”
There are not many people who watch your life with interest or think a dull kid is sharp. Those people should not be forgotten.
The most important lesson of my sophomore year happened out in the woods one afternoon, but overcoming peer pressure in the classroom proved more difficult for me. I wish now I had the same fortitude in public as I had in private because the day in the woods was pivotal for me. Afterwards, I never again felt pressured to drink or do drugs.
How does the kid who pushes the limits in the classroom refuse to smoke pot while the one who is compliant in class smokes it every day?
I guess I was a wise fool after all…
