In 1972 While America was knee deep in something called The Watergate Scandal I was eleven years old and neck deep in a scandal of my own. A note had been discovered on the floor of my fifth grade class and suddenly my world was turned upside down.
(Excerpt)
In the fall
of 1973, when I was eleven years old and in the fifth grade at Sumner
Elementary School, a note was discovered on the classroom floor, just after the
lunch period, while we were getting ready for afternoon lessons.
It was found
by a girl who had picked it up while walking over to the pencil sharpener, and
after pausing to read it, was offended by the content and quickly handed it
over to the teacher.
I was
oblivious to what was going on at the time, but when Mrs. Emory asked the class
to sit down then held up a piece of paper and said, “This has just come to my
attention,” I was in deep DOO!
I knew that
what she held in her hand was something a friend and I had written earlier that
morning. Included in that note were several rude and crude remarks about a few
of the other kids, and if that were not enough to sink the ship we had also
written some very degrading things about Mrs. Emory.
My young
heart began to race as a sickness invaded the pit of my stomach. A quick glance
at my partner in crime, told the story. His presence began to morph as the
combination of fear and guilt hit him like a one two punch. He was beyond pale.
He looked more like a ghost.
I knew our
only hope was in the fact that we had known better than to sign our names to
such a document. Therefore Mrs. Emory spent the next hour lecturing the class
and trying to determine who could have written such horrible and disgusting
things.
When
questioned we both lied, and I was sure we would escape the inevitable. Until
she had the entire class take out a pencil and a piece of paper and dictated a
few words, so she could compare the handwriting.
OOPS!
When that
exercise in futility produced no reliable results, she was frustrated, and as
means of punishment, had us lay our heads on our desks for the last thirty
minutes of the day, or until someone confessed. My friend and I looked at each
other and though words were not spoken, communication was established and we
kept our mouths shut.
When the
bell rang she dismissed class and said, “I’ll be calling all parents later this
evening to schedule a conference. Hopefully they can come in and look at the
note. I’m sure that will help us get to the bottom of the problem.”
That
nightmare of a day was followed by a long walk home and quiet dinner. Every
time the phone rang I cringed. My parents knew something was troubling me
because they kept asking if I felt alright, and though I cannot remember what
we had for dinner that evening, I do recall my glass of milk turning warm by
the time Mrs. Emory phoned our house.
When the
call finally came we were sitting around the table, so my mother stood up and
reached for the phone. When she answered, “Hello.” Then said, “Good evening
Mrs. Emory,” my father looked at me with a narrowing focus and whispered, “What
have you done?” As a diversion I reached for my warm glass of milk, forced down
a swallow and said, “I haven’t done anything Dad.”
Mom talked
with Mrs. Emory for a few minutes and during the course of their conversation
said, “No, we have not heard anything about a note, and yes we’ll be happy to
come in Monday evening for a conference. I can’t imagine a child writing
something like that. Thank you for calling.”
My father
shifted his eyes toward me and then looked back at mom. As she placed the phone
on the receiver I could feel the tension, and it made for one of those awkward
moments when seconds seem like hours and all you can do is make your best
attempt to look innocent. I knew better than to speak, because experience had
already taught me in those situations he who speaks first, loses.
As it turned
out mom took the lead when she asked,” Well son, what’s this about a note that
was found in class today?” I hesitated for a moment and had a thought that came
more like a vision. Suddenly I saw myself as a batter standing at the plate and
my mother was winding up to throw a fastball. I didn’t know wither to swing, or
let it pass.
“Oh yeah. A
note was found today and that’s about all I know.” And with that response she
reached way down into her arsenal and pulled out one of those looks that asks,
“do you really think I’m that stupid,” and sarcastically said, “So I guess you
were, ‘about,’ to tell us when the phone rang.” And with that exchange I heard the pop of her
fastball sinking into the catcher’s mitt as the umpire yelled, “Strike!”
The following link will take you to The Note:
http://www.amazon.com/Note-Cameron-Dockery-ebook/dp/B00KFT9X9K/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1400988581&sr=1-1&keywords=cameron+dockery
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