Silence
He Spoke Not a Word
YOU KNOW HOW it is when someone else feels compelled to stick up for you?
You might not even need sticking up for.
But they go ahead and volunteer to jump right in and be your spokesperson?
I didn't know about this particular phenomena until one day in the seventh grade.
* * *
Brooke Sadler was not my idea of a good teacher. Coming on the heels of my sixth grade teacher, Prescott Fairchild, he was a significant improvement. But using Fairchild as a benchmark was like starting 100 feet down in a pit in front of the high jump. Fairchild was so bad, I ended up running away from home! But that's a different story. So much for parochial school advantages . . .
Sadler had already distinguished himself as a less-than-mediocre leader among seventh graders when he bragged about not letting his wife wear slacks. It was dresses only -- even though she sported a mustache!
On this particular afternoon, he felt compelled to leave the classroom for a moment -- technically a no-no. If anything happened in his absence, he could be in some deep doo-doo. The class was well mannered as a general rule. It was during one of these times of commendable behavior that he chose to leave. Surveying his charges before backing out the door, he was satisfied that we would continue in a library-quiet study-hall convention.
And we did … for roughly a minute or so.
It was at that moment that nature provided what, at least to me, was an ironic opportunity.
Normally, the procedure for venting gas would be to raise your hand, get permission, then excuse yourself to the nearby restroom, where you could relieve the building pressure in the privacy, if not virtually soundproof vault of a bathroom stall.
But these were not normal times …
Sadler had already distinguished himself as a less-than-mediocre leader among seventh graders when he bragged about not letting his wife wear slacks. It was dresses only -- even though she sported a mustache!
On this particular afternoon, he felt compelled to leave the classroom for a moment -- technically a no-no. If anything happened in his absence, he could be in some deep doo-doo. The class was well mannered as a general rule. It was during one of these times of commendable behavior that he chose to leave. Surveying his charges before backing out the door, he was satisfied that we would continue in a library-quiet study-hall convention.
And we did … for roughly a minute or so.
It was at that moment that nature provided what, at least to me, was an ironic opportunity.
Normally, the procedure for venting gas would be to raise your hand, get permission, then excuse yourself to the nearby restroom, where you could relieve the building pressure in the privacy, if not virtually soundproof vault of a bathroom stall.
But these were not normal times …
There was no teacher to ask.
It would be a mortal sin to absent oneself from a teacherless room.
What to do? What to do?
Working from the premise that "If you're going to make a mistake, make it a good one" -- an axiom drilled into us daily by our band instructor, Ms. Haughey -- I leaned to my left and rendered a three-second blast from the past (or in this case, the unfortunate present) that lingered long after the decibel meter returned to zero.
The decimal level diminished for only a moment when it exponentially exploded by a factor of 10 as my twenty-plus fellow academicians broke the silence with their own version of rating an effort, either through instant objection or hilarious admiration.
It was at this precise moment that Sadler returned to what, just seconds before, had been the epitome of class decorum.
"What's going on here?" he demanded, with all the authority of a first-year teacher.
This only inspired a new round of hilarity, as no one cared to comment.
"Who did this?" was his next inquisitional inquiry, sterner than the first.
Without saying a word, enough eyes turned my way that he was able to triangulate.
"Ruskjer, come up here," he commanded.
Working from the premise that "If you're going to make a mistake, make it a good one" -- an axiom drilled into us daily by our band instructor, Ms. Haughey -- I leaned to my left and rendered a three-second blast from the past (or in this case, the unfortunate present) that lingered long after the decibel meter returned to zero.
The decimal level diminished for only a moment when it exponentially exploded by a factor of 10 as my twenty-plus fellow academicians broke the silence with their own version of rating an effort, either through instant objection or hilarious admiration.
It was at this precise moment that Sadler returned to what, just seconds before, had been the epitome of class decorum.
"What's going on here?" he demanded, with all the authority of a first-year teacher.
This only inspired a new round of hilarity, as no one cared to comment.
"Who did this?" was his next inquisitional inquiry, sterner than the first.
Without saying a word, enough eyes turned my way that he was able to triangulate.
"Ruskjer, come up here," he commanded.
"What did you do to make these students laugh?"
Still miles away from lessening the laughter, he thought he was at least taking control of the situation.
"I want you to do whatever it is that you did to cause this uproar."
Uproar was the salient term. With that instruction, students were roaring with laughter -- to the point of tears! Some were literally rolling on the floor …
That's when Nancy Sackett -- a girl I'd gone to school with all seven years, someone I sang duets with in church -- through tears in her eyes, burst out with, "But Teacher, he can't!"
This brought the house down. There wasn't a dry eye in the place -- except for Sadler's. It took him fully five seconds to run through the possible scenarios of what one could not be compelled to do on command.
"Go sit down. We'll deal with this later," was his only rejoinder, though we never did.
* * *
Is it any surprise that Nancy -- the one with the anatomically correct observation regarding bodily functions -- ultimately ended up becoming a career nurse?