Preface
I've been cleaning house this weekend, and in doing so found a box with papers
and treasures from high school. I don't remember the significance of a book
of matches from the Dairy Bar, or why I saved a split #3 clarinet reed, but
tucked away inside an envelope was a tiny piece of pink paper -- with my name,
the date, and instructions to report to Room 323, and signed by Mr. Holland.
The memory for that was crystal clear...and Mr. Holland, if you are out there, I'd love to hear from you.
I don't know exactly what made me do it, but I was desperate to break out of the "nerdy brain" slot into which practically everyone had put me. Granted, I was almost three years younger than any other high school freshman and after a summer full of knee surgery I was definitely having to rely more on brains than brawn, but it would have been nice to be known by name rather than any number of labels. And so, I did some things that I wouldn't have otherwise done.
At first, it was little things, like not studying for exams, but my scores set the curve so often that didn't prove to be a good strategy. I would forget my book in my locker and have to borrow one, and then I would come in just as the tardy bell rang, almost daring Mr. Holland to count me tardy. Nothing seemed to matter, and I continued to be the "golden child" who never got in trouble.
Then one day, it happened.
My seat was on the back row, and Mr. Holland had set up the film projector near my seat. AT some point, he had laid his chalk and eraser down on the black-topped lab table that is standard school issue, and then when he returned to the front of the room to lecture after the film, he didn't have it. The whole scene is like a movie I can replay in my head.
"Jaylee, will you bring me the chalk and eraser?" he said as he returned to the lectern.
I picked it up, and instead of taking it to him, hurled it from the back of the room. I can still see how it looked when the chalk hit the board and shattered, quickly followed by the eraser hitting him in the glasses.
Very calmly, he wiped off his glasses, and said, "Jaylee, you will stay after class."
Everyone was looking at me, wondering what would happen. Lisa and Rochelle, the two girls who sat near me, were convinced I would get suspended, and I was still kind of in shock at what I'd done.
The bell rang, and everyone else filed out. Mr. Holland walked back to my seat, leaned on the table beside me, and handed me a small piece of pink paper -- a referral notice, indicating my presence was being demanded in his room the following day after school.
"Jaylee, there is no excuse for that kind of behavior. I know you are trying to fit in, but there are better groups of people than the ones you are trying to impress in here."
I just looked at him as he continued, "I could take you to the office immediately for 'assault', but that isn't what you probably need. You wanted the attention and notoriety of being in trouble with me, and you definitely have it."
"Jaylee, I will not tolerate disrespect of me, and I won't tolerate your lack of respect for yourself. By the time you come tomorrow afternoon, I want 1000 sentences written saying, "I will not throw projectiles at Mr. Holland." and then we'll let the paddle finish your punishment."
I was mortified, terrified, and forty-two kinds of scared. I didn't want my parents to find out I'd been dumb, I didn't want to have to go to the office for swats (I was an office aide and heard plenty of them), and mostly I wished I'd never tried to impress two bonehead girls in my class.
He wrote me a pass to my next class, and when I got there and the other kids wanted to know what happened, I just said it was between me and Mr. Holland and let them imagine the worst. The day seemed like it would never end, but finally I went home. I carefully pulled the pink piece of paper out of my pocket, looked at it for an eternity, and began writing lines.
Late into the night, after my parents had gone to bed, I finished the last set by flashlight, hid them in my notebook, and slept restlessly.
The following day in Biology, Mr. Holland informed the class that I had been punished, and that the matter was closed. I couldn't meet his eyes, but on my way out he stopped me and reminded me to come up after school.
At the close of sixth period, I climbed the three flights of stairs up to his room, Room 323, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Another teacher was in there, and so he told me to sit down and wait. In retrospect, I think it was planned that way to make me more nervous.
When Mrs. Bryant left, he came over and looked at my sentences. Sitting on his desk was the paddle, the word BUSTER painted in bright red. Sure, I'd been paddled in school before, but this was different -- I'd disappointed myself as well as a teacher. Finally, I found my voice.
"Mr. Holland? I'm sorry. I'm not sure why I did that, but it won't happen again."
He talked for a long time, about all kinds of things. It was like he knew how hard it was for me to make that transition into high school. And he gave good advice. I had two classes with sophomores, and he encouraged me to make friends with that group, rather than the "hoodlums" in my biology class.
Then finally it was time. He gave me the choice of one swat in the office, or three swats in the classroom. I took the latter option. I bent over his desk, reached for the other side, and he stood behind me. The three swats nearly took my breath away, but the last one meant it was finally over.
When I stood up, with obvious tears in my eyes, he told me to come the next day...that maybe helping out after school in the lab would keep me out of trouble. It sure didn't hurt, because I never had another encounter with Buster and never had to write any more lines that year.