Source: gutenberg.org
My Real Memoir: My Teacher Turned Me Into a Martyr!
During my 4th-grade year, my buddy Rory and I became obsessed with crafting tiny villages out of twigs under schoolyard trees. One particular miniature hamlet garnered rave reviews from multiple girls (a welcome side effect). In fact, our little village, now populated by disoriented ants and roly-polies, was dubbed “Adoraville” by none other than Melinda Aardman, the world’s most beautiful nine-year-old!
Unfortunately, it also attracted a strange nemesis, my former favorite teacher, Mrs. Gibbons. I’d been her pet the year before. What had changed? Rory and I had lost interest in team sports when baseball officially replaced kickball, so we’d switched to architecture. This was completely unacceptable, Mrs. Gibbons informed us. We should be out there running bases, not sitting here doing girly things! We persisted despite her ongoing jibes.
Then, one unseasonably warm day, Mrs. G. decided to punish her misbehaving 3rd-graders by making them stay inside and eat their lunches in sweaty, torturous silence. Before long, outsiders began to giggle and whisper in ghostly voices through the cracked-open doorway. Mrs. Gibbons raced out the door, but the five delinquents ran in six different directions, and she missed them all. So she sturm-und-dranged her way into Principal Booker’s office, grabbed him by the lapels, and dragged him out onto the campus.
And here’s the mysterious part: She headed straight for the idyllic little village Rory and I had built, and stomped on it, instantly reducing it to an archeological site. Then she pointed at me and said, “He’s the ringleader!”
I don’t think Principal Booker believed her. But she was one of his teachers, and he had to stand behind her (safer there). But then several of the real perps came forward, confessed their crimes, and swore I hadn’t been one of them. And yet Mrs. Gibbons continued to insist that I was, in fact, their head mafioso, the Don himself!
Because I rebuffed Mrs. Gibbons’ claim, I spent the next month in recess purgatory, sitting on the sidewalk, disallowed even the most basic freedoms that great Americans like Thomas Jefferson and Mahatma Gandhi fought and died for.
I sat there day after day, stewing in my righteousness, slowly evolving into Mitch the Martyr. Truth be told, I liked martyrdom! Kids walked by, nodding in admiration, covertly raising their fists in solidarity. And best of all, whenever Melinda Aardman passed (am I just imagining this?), her eyes would moisten in tender empathy.
More importantly, I’d refused to confess to a lie. True, I did plenty dangerous and dopey things as a kid. But one thing I’m proud of is that I stood up for what I considered right regardless of consequences. I would put myself in harm’s way by placing myself between a bully and some poor cootie-bug-du-jour, shouting, “Leave him or her alone!” Surprisingly, I never got punched in the face. But even if I had, it would have been worth it.
Especially if Melinda Aardman was watching.
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