For decades, or perhaps even centuries, educators of children have wrestled with the issue of how to discipline misbehaving students. What is a teacher supposed to do when they have a rowdy, hyperactive, back-talking miscreant in their classroom? What can an institution of general education do with students who fight in the hallways or bully other kids? I suppose there is extensive reading available to those who wish to study these and other similar questions further, but the brain geniuses at my high school decided there would be separate grade in each of your classes that measured your behavior and contributions to the positive classroom environment. If you got a “U” (which stood for Unsatisfactory, a shaming term isn’t it?) you had to “make it up” by paying a fine, performing community service, or working out a deal with the teacher that gave the “U” in the first place. There were a variety of ways one could make up a poor citizenship grade, and there were a hundredfold more ways to earn a poor citizenship grade.
One might assume that only the most heinous of infractions could land someone in the “U” bucket, but someone decided that tardiness, of all things, was the most heinous of them all. Showing up late to class only four times had the potential to get you labeled as juvenile criminal according to the high school, and you were forced to make it up, otherwise you would be barred from graduation. This is the situation I found myself in when, through (probably) no fault of my own, I had racked up enough tardies in Jazz Band for my teacher to decide to give me a “U.”
I had never been faced with the task of making up a “U” before, so I talked to my teacher to see if I could strike out a quick deal with him to get it over with, but he insisted that he wanted me to have the experience of going to “The ‘U’ Class” to work it off. The advantage, I thought, of going to the “U” class was that I would pay a smaller fine and not have to do community service. The class took place right after school on a certain day of the month, and I showed up (on time) to get it over with. Whether it was the usual protocol or not, those in charge of the class had decided that all the students would go to one of the local rest homes and help the patients there play Bingo.
By the time we all arrived at the rest home, the lively participants had already begun the game. My fellow offenders were assigned out to different patients, and I was assigned to an elderly woman named June. I introduced myself and attempted to engage in some form of small talk. I casually asked her how long they had been playing the game, and she replied rather convincingly that she didn’t know.
Little did I know, she literally had no idea how long they had all been playing Bingo.
The game progressed excruciatingly uneventfully. The prizes consisted of pieces of fruit, cans of non-carbonated beverages, and the occasional fruit snack or package of peanuts (for those who could still chew them.) June was quiet most of the time, but the old woman sitting next to her was rather chatty. Eventually it was announced that the Bingo game was over. At that point, somehow the task fell to me to wheel June back to her room. I asked a nurse for directions to the number of her room, and she responded with some vague directional that really only served to let me know that my destination was on the same floor we were currently on. I walked into the hallway with June and set out to get where I was supposed to go.
As I walked slowly down the hallway, I couldn’t figure out the pattern of the room numbers. They seemed to be in a completely random order and the signs on the ceiling were not helping me at all to find the room I was looking for. What felt like tens of minutes (probably not very long at all) went by and I stopped and had to ask myself the hard question: “Where am I?”
Almost as soon as I had thought it, June said it. “Where am I?” Her question took me by surprise. I assumed she had been living in the rest home, so it didn’t even dawn on me why she would be wondering where she was. Why wouldn’t she know where she was? She was where she lived! I decided I must have imagined her asking that question and continued on.
I hadn’t taken more than two steps before she asked the same question. “Where am I? I don’t know where I am!” Although this time, there was a little more urgency in her voice. I decided still not to answer her, because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t know where I was either. I didn’t want to lie to this poor old person who didn’t know where she was, and I decided that hopefully she might subscribe to the theory of “no news is good news.”
Not only had I not seen any people walking through the halls, but I had gotten myself completely turned around in this rest home and the numbers on the rooms around me weren’t even close to the room I was looking for. At this moment of perfect confusion, June started yelling “Help! Help! I don’t know where I am!” I stood in one spot thinking about how lost I was at the same time and yet there was still no help in sight. It was all I could do to start screaming in absolute exasperation.
I realized that June had no idea at all that I was right behind her so I thought maybe it would be a good idea to try and calm her down. I explained that I was just taking to her room, that she was safe with me, and that we were almost there. My calm tone of voice surprised me and I congratulated myself on pulling myself together so quickly to be so awesome.
It didn’t work.
June became even more frantic in her cries for help. I didn’t know what to do anymore but all of a sudden, I found her room. There it was! Right in front of me! A beam of light coming out of heaven itself couldn’t have made my goal more inviting than it already was. I was sure that as soon as June was in the familiarity of her own room, she would know where she was and would calm down.
That didn’t work either.
“What is this place? I’ve never been in this room before! I don’t want anything to do with this room!” Did I have the right room after all? I left June in her wheelchair and left the room to check the name on the door. Sure enough, there it was. And like an Angel sent from Heaven, (although apparently not with the same positive disposition) one of the nurses appeared out of nowhere and began debating with June regarding her residency there in the rest home. June insisted that she wanted to go home, but the nurse assured her that her children had put her there and that the fact that her name was all over everything in the room meant she was supposed to be there. I wasn’t sure if that was mean-spirited or not, but I didn’t stick around to find out if June was eventually convinced.
Needless to say, I pretty well managed to avoid getting another "U" after that. I am also slightly afraid of old people.
