Something.
The first time I got in trouble was in the first grade. I was a polite five year old with a perpetual part on the right side of my clean cut head, nice shoes, and a healthy lunch packed by a nurturing mother who has and will continue to love me like the five year old she will always see me as. Layered in my baby blue polo and royal blue St. Helen’s sweatshirt, the class of thirty stood anxiously with our hands clasped in front of our stomachs, waiting for the end of day prayer announcement to beam over the school intercom. After a few seconds of first grade silence—which has never been, nor will ever be real silence, but more of a compromise, in which the silence is substituted for the fidgety movements, innocent chuckles, and snot-sleeved sniffles of any normal five year old—a speeding ambulance drove by on the street in front of the school with its sirens and lights blazing. Instantaneously and almost intuitively, the well mannered boy we know as Ryan belted out a “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” that mimicked the tone and timbre of the passing siren. I didn’t even think about it. I just heard the siren and for some strange—and still unknown—reason, I had to react. And it had nothing to do about being compelled or inspired to do it, but as if it were the proper and only action necessary for that situation: a siren screams and a nice Catholic boy mimics it.
So the class laughed. Shit, I laughed, and even experienced my first sense of peer acceptance. I was the cool/funny/stupid kid who screamed in class during a time of prayer, so I enjoyed the pride for a couple seconds as I looked around the room and saw the kids smiling, but was petrified when I returned back to prayer time and heard Devecchio grunt out “What was that?” Miss Devecchio was the kind of teacher that, in retrospect, seemed prone to alcoholism and bouts of homicidal tendencies. She had the eerie presence of the wicked witch of the west and even had the grotesque facial exaggerations and stringy strands of brittle hair to complete the comparison. I don’t ever recall her being nice, or even pleasant, and served as the archetypal “bad teacher” for me throughout my 18 years of schooling. She probably had a lot of cats, and loved them all more than she had loved any human.
The silence that proceeded the question was not the first grade kind, but to my knowledge the first and only historical instance of its adult counterpart of true, “oh shit” silence in a first grade setting. “You’re all staying for five minutes after the bell rings” she said with a snarl as the class gasped and whined. “If anyone talks, it’s another five minutes.” I remember thinking she was going to beat me after class. We stood there motionless and scared as convicts awaiting their sentences, but thankfully she didn’t beat me; she didn’t do or say anything to anyone after those eternal five minutes were up and she let us leave with a haunting “okay, bye.” Worried parents came closer to the room during that time since nobody was let out, and after we left no one said a word to me. In the course six minutes I was both the funniest and the most hated first grader at St. Helen’s.
So the class laughed. Shit, I laughed, and even experienced my first sense of peer acceptance. I was the cool/funny/stupid kid who screamed in class during a time of prayer, so I enjoyed the pride for a couple seconds as I looked around the room and saw the kids smiling, but was petrified when I returned back to prayer time and heard Devecchio grunt out “What was that?” Miss Devecchio was the kind of teacher that, in retrospect, seemed prone to alcoholism and bouts of homicidal tendencies. She had the eerie presence of the wicked witch of the west and even had the grotesque facial exaggerations and stringy strands of brittle hair to complete the comparison. I don’t ever recall her being nice, or even pleasant, and served as the archetypal “bad teacher” for me throughout my 18 years of schooling. She probably had a lot of cats, and loved them all more than she had loved any human.
The silence that proceeded the question was not the first grade kind, but to my knowledge the first and only historical instance of its adult counterpart of true, “oh shit” silence in a first grade setting. “You’re all staying for five minutes after the bell rings” she said with a snarl as the class gasped and whined. “If anyone talks, it’s another five minutes.” I remember thinking she was going to beat me after class. We stood there motionless and scared as convicts awaiting their sentences, but thankfully she didn’t beat me; she didn’t do or say anything to anyone after those eternal five minutes were up and she let us leave with a haunting “okay, bye.” Worried parents came closer to the room during that time since nobody was let out, and after we left no one said a word to me. In the course six minutes I was both the funniest and the most hated first grader at St. Helen’s.
