Got sent to the principal's office
3
Numerous times, at least up until high school. In grade school, being sent to the principal scared me (he was a fat, bald guy who reminded me of a sterner Mr. Weatherbee). Initially, it scared me a little in junior high as well, although the principal was mellower with me than he might have been because he and my mother were both originally from the same Jersey City neighborhood. My Dad was generally an easygoing guy, but you did not want to get him mad and my being called to the principal's office, especially if they got him involved, made him mad. The first time I got into trouble in junior high school (I've detailed it somewhat in another post) involved a fight...or maybe altercation is a better word...in which I split the other kid's lip wide open. I didn't initally see the blood, and when he made no retaliation in response to what I had done, I moved on, thinking I had bettered him without either of us suffering unduly. It was a big school, and walking down the main hallway, I noticed a trail of blood, and began to feel uneasy. As I continued on to my metal-working class, another kid I knew stopped me and said with inexplicable glee, "Jesus, somebody beat the shite out of so-and-so!" I felt a cold chill of dread, but continued on to metal class. I remember thinking with adolescent desperation that the kid didn't know my name, so I would be ok. In metal-working class, as soon as I sat down, the teacher got a phone call, looked at me quizically, and said, "Ed, they'd like to see you in the principal's office." I made that long walk with all the enthusiasm and alacrity of a condemned inmate walking to the electric chair. I hung out with some tough kids in those days, but I wasn't tough, or hardened. As I walked into the office, the vice principal saw me, gave me an intense look, and motioned to me with his finger like he might motion to a dog to follow him. Without a word, we proceeded to the nurses's office. It was like a scene out of a movie. The kid was sitting there with a compress pressed to his bleeding mouth, surrounded by his mother and older sister. They looked at me with the kind of venom that Doris Tate must have directed toward Tex Watson at his parole hearing. I was probably trembling at that point (I'm 12 years old). The vice principal said, "See what you did? Do you see?" At that point, he took me to his office and tried calling my mother, who was working at the time. Instead of my mother, he got my grandmother, a tough, feisty old woman who grew up in the same neighborhood as Jimmy Cagney. I don't know exactly what my grandmother said, but from the look on the vice principal's face, it must have been pretty scathing. When he hung up, he said to me, "That was your grandmother, huh?" I guess I worked up the gumption to ask what she said, and he replied, "She said, in essence, 'My Eddie couldn't have done something like that, and if he did, the other kid deserved it.'" I was, predictably, suspended for about a week (if it had happened today, I probably would be arrested). My parents were mellower about it than I had anticipated, so a week away from school under those conditions wasn't as uncomfortable as it might otherwise have been. That changed a few months later when I was suspended for talking back to a teacher. Ironically, I felt more justified in that particular situation, but my parents were furious. Their attitude, which I didn't agree with then and still don't, was, "You respect the position even if you don't respect the person." Needless to say, that week of suspension wasn't quite as pleasant as the previous one. This time, I was actually eager to get back to school.
