Middle School Mondays: A Seasonal Story About Discipline, Consequences, and the Mind of a 7th Grader
When I was in 7th grade, I had an experience that may seem mild as you read it, but to me, it was traumatic to the point I still remember it.
Two days before Christmas break (what we called it back then), my history class had a substitute. In the way that kids do, we sensed weakness and the whole class went crazy. Like, literally. Talking, shouting, throwing things, and so forth. It was a complete and total rebellion. My heart breaks for this woman now. But at the time, it was a lot of fun. Especially for a kid like me--a rather tame, shy, rule-follower. I was not one of the ring-leaders and my contribution was fairly mild by comparison--I believe I sang "Jingle Bells" at the top of my lungs. Pretty heady stuff indeed.
The next day, the teacher got back. And the ring-leader was found out. He was sent to see Mr. Reese, the Vice-Principal. As he was marched off, a dread silence fell over the rest of the classroom. Especially when the intercom beeped and the ring-leader's sidekick was requested. The period progressed like this--every few minutes the intercom beeped and another wrong- doer was invited to go see Mr. Reese.
Those of us who were on the bottom rungs of the insurrection started to see where this was heading. The big dogs got taken first. Then, using some terrible and nefarious methods, Mr. Reese was getting them to name names. They folded like camp chairs and sang like canaries
Mr. Reese worked with brutal efficiency and before long, I had been summoned down to his office. I'd never been there before. The dread was I made my way back there almost choked me. This was where really bad kids went. And there I was! I felt like Luke Skywalker going to face the Emperor (except for the matter that I was the bad person in this scenario. But anyway...)
Panic rushed through me and I had what I recognize now as an anxiety attack. I can still remember the pattern of the wood panelling behind his desk. He looked at me and said something like, "Brady, I'm surprised at you." I looked at the floor and muttered something. I couldn't think, let alone talk.
My punishment? Oh, that man was ghoulish, I tell you. Cruel! I was to go home and tell my parents what I had done. They were to sign a note indicating that I had discussed the incident with them. And I was to return it to Mr. Reese.
Oh, the horrors!!!!!! My anxiety blossomed to full-blown panic. This was not going to go over well. My parents were not okay with misbehavior in school and I knew it. I was going to be in BIG trouble (a brief divgression here. Remember the days when kids were terrified of parental reaction to their misbehavior in school? In our current moment, the parents not only don't generally punish misbehavior, they get mad at the teacher. Reverse this, and you would reverse many problems in education today).
I left to start my Christmas break with a growing pit in my stomach. I knew I was going to be in trouble. Big trouble. I thought about the note I needed to get signed. Should I do it that night? No. No sense in starting the break off with a major punishment. I kept procrastinating. Over and over. Not tonight. Wait until after Christmas. And on and on. I had a truly miserable two weeks, torturing myself over and over with what my parents were going to do.
One especially miserable night we went to visit my aunt and uncle, whom I adored. But they had a section of wood panelling in their living room that looked exactly like the panelling in Mr. Reese's office. I just sat on the couch all night wanting to be swallowed up and disappear forever.
This was such a powerful experience that I can still feel the dread and fear, the terrible anxiety. In fact, a certain pattern of wood panelling will send me into a cold sweat.
I'm not sure exactly why I was so scared. But I was terrified and that was a very miserable Christmas break. I don't remember much about beyond that it was really unpleasant.
The night before school started again, I forced myself to talk to my dad. If I didn't have the note for Mr. Reese, then Mr. Reese would call him and then I'd be beyond dead.
I made my way to my dad's study. I think my sister went with me for moral support and also so dad wouldn't kill me since I had a witness. They'd never laid a hand on us before, but this time I'd done something REALLY bad so you never knew.
The story poured out of my trembling lips. Dad said something like, "I think you've punished yourself more than I could ever punish you and I don't think you'll ever do this again." And that was it. He signed the note. Done. I took it to Mr. Reese who said something like, "Thank you Brady." He might have added something else along the lines of, "You know I was surprised when they mentioned your name. I sure hope you don't do that again. Say, how's the French Horn coming...." (Yes, I played the French horn. Want to make something of it? Yes, I was a nerd. But Mr. Reese had been a band director and had played the French horn so he often asked me about).
I've thought many times about this experience as I've been in the role of the parent or school official who must hand down discipline. There are two lessons I see in this experience:
1. There are times when students need to be disciplined, period. There need to be consequences for misbehavior. There must be consequences, but there must also be judgment and discretion. I've rarely regretted showing a degree of mercy in discipline. I've learned that the gentlest possible correction is often the best way to start. One can always re-visit and add more stringent consequences if the behavior is repeated. Justice and mercy mix well and compliment each other when dealing with adolescents.
2. No one could have possibly known how traumatic this experience was for me. No one knew all that was going on in my mind. And I'm not sure I could have told them had they asked. Understand that the inner lives of adolescents are highly charged, very emotionally complex places. Your child's emotions are like an iceberg in that you will probably only see a very small part of what is going on. The rest is below the surface. So, be patient. Understand that, regardless of what you see, there is probably an awful lot they are dealing with. It may be illogical, it may not make sense. It might be largely blown out of proportion. But that doesn't change the reality of how they feel and experience it.
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