Lawyerish: Respect My Authoritay!

I was terrified of my first grade teacher. After our initial introduction, when I failed to realize that one was always to address her as “Ma’am,” I assumed that I was treading on thin ice where she was concerned. Every morning on the school bus, I would stare at the green vinyl seat back ahead of me and think about all the things I might have done that could bring her wrath crashing down upon me that day – had I forgotten to do some homework? Did I stand in line correctly, with my feet planted in the center of a floor tile? Had I whispered too loudly to Allison during rest time the day before? My stomach would churn and I would yearn to go anywhere but that stalag-like classroom, where my very existence seemed to hang in the balance, my fate to be determined on the whims of a spinster with a Flowbee haircut, who routinely disciplined children with a rolled-up magazine to the butt. Her name was simply too terrible to utter, so Allison and I developed a code name for our oppressor: M.M.

I took great pains to do everything perfectly in school. Although I knew I would never win M.M.’s approval – which was elusive even to the popular, charming children, since M.M. seemed not to like children at all – at least I could avoid physical punishment by being a model student. My desk was immaculate. I was silent in the hallways. I never peed in my chair. But still, the fear was all-consuming. And then, the unthinkable happened.

For reasons that remain unclear, our class made pistachio pudding one day. (Maybe it was St. Patrick’s Day, so we were eating green foods? I have no idea.) In any event, we had taken half-pint milk cartons from the cafeteria, cut off the tops, and made individual servings of pudding. We ate them with plastic white spoons, which had been provided by Mrs. King, a teacher across the hall. As usual, I was the first to finish the task, and as part of my campaign to be a model citizen, I immediately took my empty milk carton, spoon and napkin to the trash. I had neatly folded the napkin over the spoon, and as I tried to condense everything into the carton, the spoon snapped in half. I quickly placed everything into the trash and returned to my seat, where I sat quietly, with my hands folded on my desk.

A few minutes later, Mrs. King appeared in the doorway. She spoke briefly to M.M., then gave us all a happy wave and left.

“Everyone! Listen up!” M.M. waited til the room hushed to continue. “Please save your spoons. Mrs. King is going to wash them and use them in her class. Bring them up here to my desk when you are finished."

Oh God. Myspoonisinthetrash. A few kids went over and fished their spoons out of the garbage. Myspoonisbrokeninthetrash. I looked around. All of my classmates were marching dutifully to M.M.’s desk with their spoons – their intact spoons – and handing them in. Oh God oh God oh God. There was nothing I could do. Mine was the only spoon that was irretrievable. I slumped in my chair, fighting off tears. This was it. Any minute now, I would be herded out into the hallway for my punishment.

“Has everyone finished? Do I have all the spoons?”

I felt her eyes boring into me. I tried not to sob out loud. The display of weakness would only provoke her.

She gathered the pile of spoons and left. I sagged against my desk. The only question now was when. When would she realize what I had done? Would she see the broken spoon in the trash? Would I have to stand up in front of the class and admit what I had done? Would I miss recess while I was being paddled?

M.M. came back and we started the afternoon’s lesson. I was sick with apprehension. The uncertainty was killing me. And yet, the day ended without incident. I wondered if she was just dragging things out to torture me.

In bed that night, I prayed that she would never find out about the broken spoon: Please God, oh please oh please, please don’t let M.M. know I broke the spoon, oh please oh please. Please don’t let me get spanked, oh please. Please don’t let her find out, oh God oh please.

Every day, for the rest of the school year, I was afraid. My anxiety was now so constant that the prayer ran through my head like a mantra – please don’t let her find out, oh please oh please. I would see M.M. talking to another teacher in the hall, and I just knew they were talking about me. “That girl over there? With the red hair? She’s such a bad girl. She broke Mrs. King’s spoon. Can you believe it? Yes, I’m still trying to figure out just the right punishment…” M.M.’s eyes would alight on me in reading group, and my face would burn as I shrank before her, knowing she could reveal my crime to all in the blink of an eye. The suspense was almost too much to bear. I was exhausted by the heightened alertness, the precariousness of my position. My classmates seemed to think I was Little Miss Perfect. But they didn’t know this dark side, the side that M.M. could unveil before them whenever she chose. I never let myself relax, no matter how much time passed. I could only imagine that M.M. was plotting a public indictment so elaborate that it was taking months to orchestrate.

Finally, the long and torturous school year ended, without incident, and I was released from M.M.’s class. I raced home from the bus stop, eager to begin the carefree months that stretched ahead of me. I spent the summer swimming in the lake, racing home for “Scooby Doo” every afternoon, and reading everything I could get my hands on. I didn't even think of M.M. But as August drifted toward September, a familiar shadow darkened my thoughts. What was M.M. going to tell my second grade teachers? Oh God. Oh please, God, oh please oh please…