sixth grade--Railroad Blessman and the beating

Richard Robert Blessman was my sixth grade teacher. He had a buzz haircut and wore a dark suit and tie every day to school. RR was retired Navy and ran our classroom like a military unit. He made the mistake of telling our class about his nickname in college--Railroad Blessman. His friends called him that because his first and middle names both began with R. We had fun with it when he wasn't around. It was the only humorous thing about the man.

We had lots of rules in our class, but the biggest deal was that we were not allowed to say the word "ain't." To keep us from it we each had an index card called the Ain't Card which RR kept in a box on the corner of his desk. Each time we slipped up and said that nasty word it was marked on our card and we were docked points on our grammar grade. His methods of changing our grammar only made it a game for each of us to sneak to say the dreaded "ain't" behind his back. Sometimes, in September, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, if you listen closely you can still hear the echoes of a bunch of silly sixth-graders mocking old Railroad Blessman.

"OOOOHH. Ain't, ain't, ain't, ain't."

One term I got creative with my handwriting and wrote backhand instead of in the Palmer method--you know the kind of loopy and slanted to the right way most of us use now. Even writing backhanded, I was very neat. It just didn't look like it was supposed to look, so I got a D in handwriting that grading period. I thought my mother was going to explode. When she questioned Mr Blessman about it he made her even madder by saying, "No student ever deserves an A." She told me I'd better do exactly what he wanted me to do in class because she didn't want anymore Ds on my report card, so I abandoned my evil, creative ways and joined the herd once more.

I was a Safety Patrol that same year. My post was at the corner of Mapledale and Vassar. I was very proud to have the responsibility of helping kids across the street. There never was much traffic but it didn't matter to me. I was a patrol. Donna Rudnik and Mickey McMasters were also safety patrols on streets in my area but further out from the school. I'd only known Mickey since fifth grade, but I had known Donna since third grade when I moved to Hazel Park. I thought Donna was my friend. I'd been to her house many times after school. We'd gone shopping together with her mom. I went to church with her once. We laughed. We talked. I liked Donna. I liked Mickey. I thought they were my friends. Then one afternoon they both came to my post and started laughing and acting silly.

"Here. Hold her arm."

"OK."

Donna grabbed one arm and Mickey grabbed my other one.

"Now hit her with your patrol belt."

With one on either side of me holding my arms, they both began swinging their rolled up patrol belts against my bare legs, metal buckle and all. It wasn't funny at all but they both laughed as they wailed on me over and over again.

It hurt.

"Hey you guys. Let me go!"

"Aw c'mon. You're a Safety Patrol. It doesn't really hurt."

They each kept a tight grip on my arms and kept swinging.

"Stop it! Let me go!"

I struggled against them twisting and turning until I broke loose. They both laughed like fools as they watched me run home to safety. When I got there Mom could tell something was wrong even though I wasn't crying. I think it was the welts on my legs from the "goofing around" that my friends had just done that gave me away.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"What in the world happened to your legs?"

"Oh, Donna and Mickey were just goofing around."

But my mother didn't buy my simplistic explanation and grilled me until I told her exactly how they were 'goofing around.' She called the school immediately to tell Miss Morris what had happened. The next day all three of us were called into her office. Miss Morris was an imposing figure. She was a large elderly woman with gray hair, black glasses, a stern look, and a withered arm. We were all scared to death of her.

Miss Morris told Donna and Mickey she knew about what had happened the day before and lectured them on responsibility and setting an example for the younger students. She took away their Safety Patrol posts and belts and required them to apologize to me. Which they did right then and there.

They had to or they would die.

As we left Miss Morris' office together to go back to class, Donna asked,

"What did you tell on us for?"

"I didn't. My mom did. I didn't want you guys to get into trouble."

If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never completely understand why I didn't want them to get into trouble. I didn't get mad at them but I was puzzled about why they'd doubled up on me and hurt me. In spite of everything that happened to me that day, I still thought of them as my friends. Especially Donna. She couldn't have meant to hurt me. They were just goofing. Weren't they? Surely they didn't mean to be hateful and rotten to me. Friends just sometimes make mistakes. Friends don't hurt you like that. Do they?

So, I let it go, and I never got mad or ever became their victim for the spur of the moment beating they gave me on the corner of Mapledale and Vassar one fall afternoon on a Friday in Hazel Park, Michigan.