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Gowns And Goons

The Source

No teacher can ever claim to have seen it all, but with forty years in the classroom I can surely attest to having seen a little…often more than I wished. You need only open your newspaper to see some of the worst that could happen in a school and I suppose we should cling to the reassurance that newscaster Walter Cronkite once gave, “Be thankful that the news is what’s unusual, not normal.” But my memory is selective and I’ve been blessed to have gray matter that recalls the truly wonderful classroom incidents more readily than the tragedies. Like The Second Hand Prom. Several years ago I was the class sponsor for a remarkable group of Triopia seniors who met before prom and took a mutual vow that no one would spend more than $25 for their prom costume. Twenty-five bucks. Every prom dress, tuxedo, suit coat, and shoe had to be purchased for less than twenty-five dollars. They met one Saturday and as a group attacked Dollar General, the Salvation Army clothing store, Goodwill, and their grandmother’s attics. To hear the group retell the joys of their shopping day it was every bit as much fun as the prom itself. The Grand March that night was sight to behold as the couples strolled into the Triopia gym wearing their newly found and much-worn clothing. No, it was not a comical mishmash. It was great. It was more that great…it was glorious. The kids (who are no longer kids) still talk about it today. It was interesting to note that not a single senior objected to The Second Hand Prom. The only complaints came from a few mothers who’d spent years anxiously awaiting the moment when they could blow a wad on little Suzie, only to have her show up in a gown she’d picked up at Goodwill for ten bucks. The Goon Squad. The “goons” were a group of rough-necked 7th-grade boys who weren’t all that sweet and loving on their own, but for some reason that I still don’t completely understand, when given the name “goon” along with custom made “goon” shirts, became a living miracle. We’d been talking in class about bullying and the awful feeling of being left out. Again, these were four boys who’d spent as much time being kicked into the hallway as they’d spent in their Jr. High English class. But for some reason they took it upon themselves to start attacking the problem of kids who are left out, who seem shunned, who simply didn’t meet the adolescent criteria of being “popular.” Chris was the leader of the goons and he was in charge of picking the group’s next victim. Vickie was a case in point. Vickie was very tall, not well kept, and the clothes she wore to school had been through many sisters…and perhaps a few brothers..before they got to her. No one spoke to Vickie in the hallway. No one ate with Vickie at lunchtime. So…the goons attacked. (That’s what they’d call it… a Goon Attack). As soon as Vickie entered the Jr. High locker area on Monday morning they were in her face. They were all over her. They talked to her. They carried the books of this now totally flummoxed girl to first hour class. At lunch hour they surrounded her, sat by her, talked to her. Okay, I still have no idea how all this happened. If you can figure out the mind of an adolescent boy, please write a book and send me the royalty checks. All I know is that Vickie was happy to the point of tears all week and the goons thought it was all pretty cool. They’d scored. The Lunatic. We’d never had many major problems with drugs in the school until one of my students showed up higher than a kite one spring morning. It was plain that he’d been sniffing something stronger than Quaker Oats for breakfast and when he became unmanageable in my class I asked him to leave. He refused. I not so gently urged him toward the door and when we got into the hallway his obscenities got the attention of everyone, including the principal, who quickly had him removed from the building. The next day after school we met in the principal’s office to determine our options. I’d had a late-night visit from the student in the meantime. At least I assume it was him when I found that my car’s windows had been smashed. Somewhere in the middle of our deliberations the door to the principal’s office burst open and a senior boy stood there with tears in his eyes. He said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, and I know you guys gotta do something about that kid, but I think you should pray for him, too.” Then he left. Obviously crazy. Who but a lunatic could be that sensible?