They say that 2nd lieutenants have the highest mortality rate in the army because they are charged with leading their platoons into combat. I’ve never been in the infantry, but I know how they must feel.
In elementary school, I was usually the teacher’s pet. I never really sought out the position, the way some other lamentable boot-lickers might, it just happened. Partly it was due to my being a bright student. But it also helped that I knew many of my teachers personally. That’s because my father was president of the School Board and my mother was president of the PTA. Not at the same times, but the end result was that I was always running into teachers at my house, and sometimes even at our swimming pool. Seeing your fourth grade teacher in a bikini definitely puts a whole different spin on the instructor-student dynamic.
Anyway, I did my best to keep church and state separate at Strawberry Point School. For the most part I was successful, but not always. In one particular instance, I was so focused on raising my visibility among my classmates that I didn’t realize I would be blind-sided by fate during morning recess.
Not being a part of the regular four-square and dodge-ball crowd, and definitely not willing to risk my budding masculinity by getting involved in a game of hop-scotch (which was too bad, because I was actually pretty good at it), I spent most of my recess periods either talking or wandering around picking up rocks. Now, that isn’t as pathetic as it sounds. My friend, Brett, and I were particularly fond of the tiny pea-sized polished pebbles of red and yellow jasper, green chert and white quartz that would work their way loose from the concrete along the edges of the playground. It passed the time and I’m sure we had great conversations. I don’t remember what they were, but I assume they were along the line of “Hey, I found one!” Or, in Brett’s case (since I had never met anyone so soft spoken), “hey, I found one.”
At the end of recess, we would line up to go back inside – boys in one, girls in the other – and wait for our teacher, Miss Edson. There were even guides painted on the playground, if anyone was unclear on the concept or procedure. Pushing and shoving was discouraged, but those who did usually got to be in the front. Now, I have no idea why it was so important to be first in line, it just was. Perhaps it conveyed an evolutionary advantage that would mark one as a superior source of reproductive material, but that is just speculation. Usually, I was somewhere in the middle, not being strong enough to be in the front, where I presume the mates were being handed out, and not being one of the nascent jocks who were always delayed by having to figure out how to put the dodge balls back into the big wire basket.
I wallowed in linear obscurity for much of my youth, all the way through kindergarten, first grade and most of second. But in the spring of that year I hatched my plan to launch myself into The Elite, The Chosen, The Few, The Proud, The First-in-Line.
I cleverly surmised that since everyone was already used to seeing me wander aimlessly around the playground, I wouldn’t set off any alarms if I just happened to be in the vicinity of the back-to-class line - just as the bell rang. It was a brilliant plan, in theory. The only problem was that it was difficult to get the timing down.
Merely hanging around the front of the line until the bell rang wouldn’t do. That was considered very poor etiquette, enough to get one shoved aside rudely and be relegated to the tail end of our little boy caterpillar. For a week I struggled to get it just right. Some days found me too far from the line when the bell rang. Others found me there too early, and forced to drift away, lest I tip my hand. But, I was confident it was only a matter of time.
Finally, one bright sunny day, almost by osmosis, I arrived at the front of the line at the exact moment the bell rang. I stuck out my little elbows and spread my legs wide to prevent interlopers and leaned back against the surging throng, but they were too late. For the first time in my elementary school career I was top dog. I stood there beaming in wonderment; I couldn’t have been prouder if they had just awarded me the Nobel Prize for Pebble Finding. The other boys shriveled in the presence of my machismo. The world was my oyster. Then Mrs. Werbner came waltzing by.
Mrs. Werbner taught sixth grade way down at the other end of the building, in the Multi-Purpose Room. I had seen her numerous times over at our house, so she definitely knew who I was, but we seldom crossed paths at school. I hoped she would simply notice me, raise her eyebrows ever so slightly in silent acknowledgement of my sterling accomplishment, and then pass on by. That was really the only scenario that I could envision, so I held my breath, wishing it to be so. Please, oh please…
Apparently, no one listens to the prayers of second grade boys.
Instead, Mrs. Werbner saw me, dangerously exposed at the front of the line, swerved from her path, picked me up easily by the shoulders and gushed, “Mark, you are sooo cute!” How she managed to refrain from giving me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek, I don’t know, but the damage was done. I was mortally wounded while leading my men into battle. She put me down and walked briskly on, as her voice echoed loudly in my ears.
I should probably tell you that the other boys beat me up after school and the girls shunned me till long after puberty. But, truthfully, I have no idea what happened after she left. The rest of the world receded from me rapidly as I was sucked into a black hole of embarrassment. Miss Edson led the class back in, everyone passing me by as I stood there rooted in first place, before tagging myself on to the very end. I can tell you that the front of the line held no further mystique for me for the duration of my school years.
It is a shame that I switched schools in the fifth grade, so I never got to have Mrs. Werbner as my teacher. I heard that she was a really good and I genuinely liked her.
I just hated that she ruined my life.
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