Dateline: March 1st, 1994.
I sit cross-legged on the big meeting rug in the middle of
my 1st grade classroom. My teacher calls this “sitting
Indian-style.” Political correctness came late to the elementary schools of
small town central Ohio.
My teacher, Mrs. Aufdencamp, a sturdy woman in her mid-50’s
wearing orthopedic shoes as she hovers over the class, is well-known as a stern
task-master. She bellows my name. I stand up, clumsily.
She asks me to go up to the classroom calendar and put today’s date on the
board. I hesitate.
On the wall to my right hangs a giant calendar made out of pink, purple and red
construction paper for the month of February. Apparently February is the color
of lipstick. In a box to the right of the calendar is a stool holding a
shoebox. This is the box of dates. One date is left in this box. February 29th.
But there is no February 29th.
I may be young, but I am aware of certain inalienable
truths. There is only a February 29th once every four years and it
only happens in years with both a presidential election and a summer Olympics.
This year there are winter Olympics and a World Cup. That’s not quite cool
enough for an extra day.
I protest, “Dearest educator, I beg your pardon, but today is March 1st.”
My memories are far more deferential and eloquent than real life.
She sneers and I swear I see a puff of smoke emanate from her left nostril.
“Foolish child! Of course it’s not. Your wise and beneficent teacher would
never make a mistake. Now PUT UP THE DATE!” She may have actually said, “Um, I
don’t think so,” but my version is way better.
I fell to my face, supplicant before my beloved yet
simultaneously terrifying teacher. I was scared, but I had to fight for what I
knew to be right. “Oh fair one! My liege! I must insist. You are making a grave
error. Please do not force me to lead my fellow astray.” I may have
encapsulated this erudite argument in the phrase, “It is too, March 1st!”
In my mind’s eye I can see the rage boiling in her eyes at my six-year-old
insolence. She strides to her desk with a menacing stare that probably never actually
occurred and rifles through her purse until she pulls out her trusty check
book. She flings open the book, checks the date, and begins a slow and
dangerous exhale. She knows that I am correct. I am the victor. I have
vanquished my foe.
You would think that my classmates would lift me on their
shoulders for saving them from their mistakenly-dated fate, but alas no
congratulations were given. Simply an acknowledgement that it was indeed March
1st. Game over.
Or so I thought, but parent-teacher conferences wait for no
man and while I forgot, my foe remembered.
On the night of the parent-teacher conference, my parents
returned from their meeting with serious looks. They walked in, had me sit at
the table and said that we needed to have a talk. My teacher has informed them
that I am argumentative and often disruptive. She believes that I have a
problem with authority.
Of course, she was right. Well, she still is right. I was
argumentative, and I still am. I also have a well-documented problem with
authority. I may have neglected to tell you about the other run-ins I had with
this teacher where I was less right and less victorious. My memories like to be
glorious.
I look at my parents and I protest, “But, but, did she tell
you that I was right?”
She did. That wasn’t the point.
That was the first time I remember being right and discovering that it
wasn’t so important. It’s a lesson I keep learning and it’s a lesson that I
continue to forget.
Peace,
Ben
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Ben
Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual
living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop
Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can
follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87.
You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
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