Painful Learning                                                                           March 11, 2020

 

Miss Breadford was starting the first year of her career and she was our teacher. She looked like a teenager with her long dark hair with little curls at the end, sometimes pulled back into a ponytail.  In contrast to the other career teachers she was slim indicating her youth again. Her brown eyes made quick movements around the classroom as if she was afraid that something bad would happen and she would not catch it.  She had an easy smile that signaled approval for the right answers and tasks accomplished. During the first part of the day, her sweet perfume could be detected as far back as the third row of desks. 

 

Her room had everything in order. The Alphabet in script was above the black board with chalk and erasers available in the tray. The bulletin board had a calendar with the important dates highlighted on it. Her desk had just the bare essentials except for a small vase usually holding a single bloom. The pencil sharpener was over by the window and the gray waste basket was next to her desk. By the door stood the American flag, ready for our daily salute and pledge along with a morning prayer.

 

The first day of class she explained the rules posted on the bulletin board. There were a lot of small (in our opinion) offences like passing notes, throwing things, and various other criminal activity. I guess they were good rules but I didn’t know because I was talking to Jim who was sitting behind me.

 

She detailed what she wanted us to learn and to do that there needed to be some order and respect in the classroom. To make sure we understood, she explained about her long handled paddle (that would have done credit to a Hawaiian canoe) and that she would use it to control the class. We would not be punished for wrong answers but for misbehaving. When she pulled it from the bottom drawer, it brought fear to most of the students. She hoped that the threat was enough to assure instant obedience to all the regulations. 

 

Most of the time, she exhibited confidence beyond her years. Occasionally, there would be a pause, or a repeat, or a hesitation as if she were not sure what should be next. Then she would make a soft funny little giggle and go on with the class.

 

It must have been the third week of classes when someone got too much out of line. She had raised her voice to call us to attention but not in anger. That day, the misbehavior was too much. She walked to her brown desk, opened the squeaky bottom drawer, and removed the paddle, placing it on top of her desk. In a sharp tone we had never heard she called the wayward student, “Come to the front of the room.”

 

In those days, not only was corporal punishment accepted but it was encouraged. It was a good Biblical principle to spare the rod and spoil the child. When properly applied to the seat of learning, it usually brought results. She was about to do what teachers throughout the ages had done to control the class.

 

When the student arrived before the entire class, she picked up the paddle and said. “Grab your ankles.”  There was a pause to give time for the anticipation to add to the punishment. Then the sound of the impact would cause many of us to jump. 

 

The one lick brought a cry of pain and tears began to flow. With a little crack in her voice she said, “You may return to your seat.”

 

It seemed that day broke the ice and there were spankings about every other day. Somehow I escaped those early ones.

Jim sat right behind me. His wooden desk was attached to the back of my seat. It put him very close to me and he could get my attention by kicking the bottom of my chair and whispering in my ear.

 

From the previous year, I knew Jim pretty well. He was a little taller than I was and had brown hair that had been cut by his mother. He was very slim but his muscles showed through his oversized hand-me-downs.  

 

Jim came from a rough family who lived in a shotgun house at the edge of town. His shoes were worn out and his clothes had patches on the patches. His father left the family a couple of years  ago. His mother worked long hours and left Jim to take care of himself. Despite all this, he had earned respect on the playground, not only for his humour but also for his ability to stand up to any bully. 

 

None of us had even seen Jim cry. One day he fell from the highest bar on the trapeze. He landed hard and sprained his wrist. He sat there for a couple of minutes in obvious pain and said, “Now I know how Superman feels when kryptonite is near. 

 

Once, I asked him about not crying. He said, “My dad said nobody likes a crybaby.”

 

As we sat under a shade tree at recess, I asked, “Doesn’t it hurt when the bully hits you?”

 

He gave a little laugh to cover up some hidden feelings and said, “No one can hurt me as bad as my dad did when he’d come home drunk.”

 

He didn’t explain any more and I didn’t ask. I couldn’t understand for a dad hurting his son that much. When my dad switched me, as needed, he always had tears in his eyes to match those in mine. 

 

Jim was the class clown and could usually get us to laugh two or three times during any class period. He felt it was his duty to entertain as much as possible each day. 

 

Between the two of us, we could always bring a little excitement to a dull class. You understand, most of the time it was Jim. 

 

One day, Jim and I were on a roll and the audience was enjoying it. We were chewing paper, making spit balls and shooting them through the straws we brought from the cafeteria. We were pretty accurate with little balls sticking to the ceiling or on the bare light bulb. Jim got laughs as one hit a boy on the front row just as he turned to see what we were doing. It was right on the end of his nose. Almost the whole class laughed which caused Miss Breadford to turn from writing on the blackboard and catch Jim and me with straws next to our mouths. 

 

Maybe she got up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, or maybe she had just realized her age was putting her close to Old Maid status. Or maybe it was too close to her lunch time. Whatever it was, she had lost her sense of humor and didn’t see anything funny with a spit ball on the tip of a student’s nose.

 

The fearful command came out loud and clear. “Jim and Bob come to the front!”

 

Now, I had studied the process of paddling and Miss Breadford’s attitude as she administered it. So when it came my turn, my approach was to cry immediately, even saying “I’m sorry!” I was ready to promise to never misbehave the rest of the year and until I graduated from high school. 

 

With such a response, a little measure of compassion would leak from her and one blow would be sufficient and that one would probably not be too hard.

 

Jim had a different idea. His desire was to always appeal to the largest audience, namely, the other students. So, he strutted to the front, smiling at the guys and winking at the girls. Without ever looking at Miss Breadford, he turned his back to her, flashed a determined look around the room, and grabbed his ankles without being told. Looking between his legs, he glanced around the room and gave a large smile to everyone. 

 

Miss Breadford, who now had lightning flashing from her eyes, swung the paddle so far back, she almost hit the vase of roses on her desk. With the force of righteousness indignation, she brought the instrument of correction on to the judgement seat. 

 

Jim straightened up and turned toward the class still wearing his best smile. That, probably, was one of the worst ideas that Jim ever had.

 

“Grab your ankles!” came the additional command. With an acknowledged nod of his head toward his supposed fans, he bent over.

 

Determined that the force had not been sufficient to leave an impression and create an example, she drew back for the second blow. The paddle was drawn far behind her. Her body twisted in preparation. Her teeth came together behind tight lips. The crack crashed through the room and echoed down the hall. She inflicted pain sufficient to transform any rebel into a law abiding citizen for the rest of his life. 

 

But not Jim. He slowly rose with a smile still on his lips. He had received much worse from his dad. With a look of victory toward his supporters and a courageous curl of his lips, he rose, not acknowledging the slight tear by even a sweep of his sleeve. He was brave and he was tough.

 

The administrator of corrections was almost overcome by the task before her. She took a step backward, drew back. This must take away any doubt that she was in charge. This must remove the smile. This must be an example for the whole class. 

 

Her swing was well aimed and delivered with the force of her anger and determination. The sound was enough to make all students flinch.

 

Everyone waited. No one took a breath. All eyes focused on Jim.

 

Slowly he straightened up. The determined look, the mocking smile, the courageous sneer broke with tears rolling down his cheeks.  He let out a sob he couldn’t control. He waited for permission to return to his seat. He only looked at the floor as he walked to his desk. He did not even glance in my direction. He slid into his seat and put his head down on his desk. So soft, I could just barely hear it, Jim cried. 

 

I didn’t see any change in Jim from that punishment. He was still the clown. He still made us laugh. He continued to find new things to do that disrupted the class.

 

The only outward change for the teacher was that she dropped the paddle into the drawer, slid it closed, sat down at her desk. She opened some teacher type book and took a pen but didn’t write anything. 

 

For the rest of us, the class was deathly quiet. There was a little fear of the new teacher.

And I hurt, not for my punishment but for Jim crying before his friends.

 

Someday, I’ll write a fiction story of this event. I’ll give a different ending. It will go something like this.

 

Jim endured the second lick rising with a smile on his lips. This had not measured up to the beating his dad had given him.

 

He looked around the room to make sure all were seeing his endurance and  victory. He was brave and he was strong. He didn’t acknowledge, even with a swipe from his sleeve, the unwelcome tear that had appeared at the edge of his eye.

 

Miss Breadford became more angry. Determined not to be a failure at punishment, she commanded, “Grab your ankles!” with an imperative so strong that some of the boys at the back of the class, grabbed theirs.

 

She drew the paddle back as far as she could. Her swing was like Babe Ruth going for the homer. It whistled through the air like Casey at bat. The crack shook the windows and some alphabet letters fell from above the blackboard.

The sound echoed around the room and down the hall and then, there was an eerie silence.  

 

Jim, ever so slowly, rose to face his teacher. A single tear made its way down his cheek. Without a word, he placed his right arm across his waist and his left slightly behind him. Looking directly into her eyes, he gently bowed ever so gracefully.

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The room was hushed. The tension was measurable. The anticipation was fearful.

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Without looking, Miss Breadford slowly dropped the paddle into the still open bottom drawer. With her right heel, she pushed the drawer closed. Keeping her foot behind her, caught the sides of her skirt. While Jim held his bow, she carefully bent her knees into a small curtsy. She held it there until Jim began to straighten and together they stood up straight. 

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Jim had his head high with the tear still on his cheek as he walked back to his seat. Miss Breadford turned her back to the class as she reached for a Kleenix.

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I’m not sure if I started the clapping or someone else did. Others joined in. Some began slowly, wondering what had taken place. Soon the entire class was applauding.

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The paddle never came from the drawer again for the rest of the year. Sometimes the rollers on the drawer squeaked a threat and that was enough. 

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Jim still entertained the class but it was different now. He was still funny. He was still the clown. But he was never rude or disrespectful. When someone else began to be disruptive and discourteous, Jim would look at them and when they looked back, he would squint his eyes and slowly shake his head only once. That was sufficient. 

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And Miss Breadford, in her long and happy career, became one of the best loved teachers in the whole school.

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Romans 13:7 REV  Show respect to those you should respect. And show honor to those you should honor.

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