Last night sitting around the table one of my nephews asks us to confess the worst thing we ever did in school.
At 15, the worst thing he’s done is scream “PENIS!” when his teacher is writing on the board in front of the class.
You can see everyone self-censoring, not wanting to teach him bad behavior.
My dad tells the story of shooting a burning test tube at a classmates’ butt making the kid scream “Jesus Christ that hurts”, earning him a punch from the priest/teacher. That was in 1950 when priests still hit children in the classroom.
I sit there silently thinking of any story that might not be too bad but come up dry and just listen.
My husband Dave confesses to writing “teacher you are a Fucker” on a piece of paper and sticking it on her desk. That was in fourth grade and the dirty deed earned him a detention.
My brother told the story where he stole a pack of Marlboro Reds from my dad and brought them to school in sixth grade. He almost got kicked out.
My sister had a pizza delivered to a classroom on the day of his evaluation, but I can remember her telling me many worse stories, so many
Life is all about the stories we tell and even more so about the stories we don’t tell.