Peanuts In My Pocket

I recently scanned this photo from my middle school graduation. It brought back a flood of memories, a few good ones, but mostly painful ones. Sometimes I wonder whether memory is really a gift. If it were possible, would I choose to forget the memories that bring nothing but pain? I know the answer is no, but it would be nice.

The photo shows me accepting my graduation certificate from the infamous Mr. Johnson. I don’t remember his exact title, only that he was the man who wielded Tetzlaff Middle School’s disciplinary paddle. I remember the paddle well. It landed on me a few dozen times during the three years I attended that school.

I hated the man.

Most of us did.

One incident stands out more than the others.

I was about to receive three swats for hitting a teacher. In my defense, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. After gym class, we showered before returning to class. Our gym teacher liked to “motivate” us with rat tails, towels rolled tightly with a wet tip that stung like hell. He hit me twice for moving too slowly. I reacted without thinking and hit him back.

He didn’t appreciate that.

I was sent to Mr. Johnson’s office for discipline.

It got worse.

By then, I was already a frequent visitor and knew Mr. Johnson’s paddle all too well. My mouth got the better of me. I asked whether he’d like to paddle my bare ass, repeating a rumor that had circulated among the boys. I even suggested he might enjoy it.

I was fourteen years old.

And very, very stupid.

The punishment that followed was unlike anything I’d experienced at school. I received three swats every day at lunchtime for an entire week. My parents were called in for a meeting. I was grounded for a month, punished again at home, and then required to meet with the school social worker for several weeks.

I have no idea whether those rumors were true. What I do remember is his voice.

“Drop your pants, bend over, and grab your ankles.”

The swats that followed were brutal. My memory has transformed that paddle into something resembling a cricket bat with holes drilled through it. Whether that’s accurate or not, I honestly don’t know. I do remember the bruises.

The paddlings often left me in tears. Then I was expected to return to class, where sitting in my desk was painful for the rest of the day.

What Mr. Johnson didn’t know was that pain wasn’t new to me. By then, life at home under my stepfather had already taught me plenty about it.

That’s why I sometimes wish I could forget.

A single old photograph can pull me back into a time I’d rather leave behind. I don’t remember much about the graduation ceremony itself or even the party afterward. What I remember is the feeling that surrounded those years: fear, pain, confusion, and, thankfully, a handful of friends who made enduring it a little easier.

1975 was a difficult year for the fourteen-year-old version of me.

Unfortunately, even harder years still lay ahead.

Not every memory from that day is painful.

At my graduation party, my Uncle Dan gave me a full-size KA-BAR U.S. Marine Corps fighting knife. It became my fishing and camping knife for many years. I only recently retired it after decades of faithful service.

I’ve always believed my uncle, a now-deceased firefighter and the man I wanted to be when I grew up, gave me that knife as more than just a coming-of-age gift. I think it was also his quiet way of reminding me that I could protect myself and my sisters if I ever had to.

Fortunately, that day never came.

But during the turbulent years that followed, it didn’t seem like such an impossible possibility.