And That's the Way It Was, Back In Val's Semi-Early Days of Educatin'

I don't usually spout off here about my profession. Not in so many details, anyway. But today I will treat you to a vignette concerning pupil demeanor in the public school system. Blog buddy Joe H. wonders how today's teachers manage to control their charges. I don't have the answer for that. If I did, I would bottle it and sell it on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. Teaching is not the profession it used to be. It used to go a little something like this:

I was not a neophyte. I had ten years of teaching under my belt. Nobody was going to put one over on Mrs. Thevictorian. The class was a collection of shoulder-chips who didn't care much what grade they received, as long as it was passing. In the words of one: "If you get higher than 59.5, you're working too hard." They made it their goal to push the envelope. That's their job, you know. Adolescents must rebel against authority, against parents, against teachers, in order to prepare themselves for life as an adult.

Mrs. Thevictorian ran a tight ship. The fires of mutiny were quickly snuffed. Sometimes with humor, sometimes with threats promises of consequences, sometimes with talks after class, sometimes with letters home, and finally with discipline referrals. Let the record show that Mrs. Thevictorian only wrote up one or two students per year. Most of her charges were fast learners, even if they didn't want to show it in the academic department.

In her upstairs classroom, on the westward side of the building, late in the afternoon, in the heat of Indian Summer, (yes, this was in the days when most schools were not air-conditioned), The Incident occurred. Let the record show that Mrs. Thevictorian had full backing from her administration, which tolerated no tomfoolery in the learning environment. Such were the distractions kept to a minimum that the school allowed no visible tattoos, no facial piercings, no Mohawks. You didn't even think about wearing a hat in the building.

So on this sweltering day, at the beginning of the class period, just as Mrs. Thevictorian was getting into the meat of the lesson, Antsy turned around in his desk, which was at the head of the row, right in front of Mrs. Thevictorian's desk, her seating chart being alphabetical, none of this sit where you want every day kind of laxity in her classroom design...and snatched the pencil from the hands of the pupil behind him. Antsy then, in one swift motion, chucked that pencil out the open window, onto the ground two stories below, right beside the sidewalk leading to the main entrance beside the principal's office.

Mrs. Thevictorian continued with her lesson, walked to her desk, extracted a discipline referral, jotted down the time, and set it aside until she was finished with her instruction. As the pupils ducked their heads and began their guided practice, Mrs. Thevictorian filled out the specifics, handed Antsy his discipline referral, and directed him to the office.

Sometimes, you just have to make a point. A point that will resonate with the rest, so that such shenanigans cease, and learning takes the forefront. Not only did Antsy cross that line with his theft and his littering, but he made a mockery of the learning environment. To allow such an affront would have been a disservice to the other 27 pupils in that classroom.

Near the end of the period, Antsy returned. He was subdued. One of his cronies asked, "How many days did you get?" Meaning days of in-school suspension.

"None," said Antsy. "I got three swats."

A collective gasp rippled through the classroom. Not a gasp of shock at the thought of one of their members having his bottom swatted with a wooden paddle. A gasp of awe. SWATS? In-school suspension was the norm.

"How'd you do THAT?" asked an inquiring mind.

"You have to ASK for them!" said Antsy.

"Ohhh..." It was as if the location of the Holy Grail had been revealed.

Because, you see, the pupils much preferred to take their consequences and get on with life, a little bit the wiser, than pussyfoot around and while away three days in a room with other offenders, contemplating the error of their ways.

That's how it was, back in the day. Now I don't think even asking for it could get you swats.