A little fish in a big pond!
That’s pretty much how I felt as a sixth grader during my first year at Bentworth Middle School on the other side of the tracks in Ellsworth, Pennsylvania.
However, landing in the principal’s office with my buddy Chris Rusilko was not exactly the big splash I was hoping to make the morning a substitute teacher ordered us to make the long trek downstairs.
Sitting on a hard wooden bench outside Mr. Merland Carson’s closed door, I was not looking forward to a blight on my permanent record that would inevitably follow me through the remainder of my secondary education.
Everything was right as rain a mere twenty minutes earlier when we were on top of the world.
While all the other students were stuck behind closed doors listening to the teachers ramble on about the subject at hand, my boon companion and I had the run of the educational facility as we roamed the halls.
We were the self-appointed hall monitors for the institution of learning as we passed out detention slips left and right for students caught running through the corridors without a hall pass.
“You there,” I called out to a fellow student as he stopped dead in his tracks. “Just what do you think you’re doing risking life and limb by running down the hall without regard for your own safety.”
“Where is your hall pass,” I continued while pulling out my official notebook of blank detention slips. “Just how did you slip out of your classroom without receiving the proper permission from your teacher.”
“I would be dialect in my duty as a hall monitor if I didn’t write up this infraction; so you’ll be joining the other rabble-rousers in after school detention,” I added before handing him the properly documented piece of paper.
Poppycock!
For all intents and purposes, we were simply attempting to make it from one classroom to the next before the bell sounded announcing the end of the period and thereby sending hordes of other young scholars into the hallways.
To put it bluntly, I was trying to avoid being knocked to the floor with my books scattered about due to my balance problem which was associated with my disability – a mild case of cerebral palsy.
Although we switched classes in fifth grade during our last year at Washington Street Elementary School in Bentleyville, the pupils in the three classes were required to assemble in an orderly line as we crossed back and forth between the rooms throughout the day.
Nevertheless, middle school was a whole different state of affairs; because we were required to climb up and down steps as we traveled about the three story building getting from one class to the next.
Needless to say, I was terrified at the thought.
However, I breathed a sigh of welcome relief when the school administrators informed my parents that I would be given a couple minutes at the end of each period to make a quick exit to my next class before the bell sounded.
I was even more grateful when I discovered I would be allowed to have a classmate of my own choosing to accompany me on my travels about the school with their designated charge of carrying my books.
My very own gentleman’s gentleman. I felt like the King of England!
With several options available at my immediate disposal, I was pleasantly surprised when Chris kindly volunteered for the menial task of lugging my class materials from one place to another.
Of course, he probably realized the unpaid position’s most significant benefit, which was namely getting himself out of class a few minutes early along with me.
Regardless of his reasons, I was more than glad for the company as we became very close comrades and partners in crime by spending several minutes each day with many private and uninterrupted conversations.
The two of us had become good friends when we landed in the same fifth grade class the previous year. In fact, there were several occasions when we hid out in our classroom together instead of joining our peers on the playground for recess.
Unfortunately for us, there was nowhere to hide when everything went south after I took longer than expected for an emergency pit stop to the boys restroom.
The tardy bell rang before we could make it to Mrs. Rosalee Carroll’s English class.
After closing the door behind us upon entering the classroom, a substitute teacher looked down her long nose through black-rimmed spectacles demanding to know why we were late.
Before we had an opportunity to inform the replacement educator of our reasonable explanation, she instructed us to report to the administrative offices without delay.
After making the trip downstairs, Chris and I just looked at each other with bug eyes and lumps in our throats while listening to the shouting coming from the other side of the door as we awaited our yet to be determined fate.
When all the commotion ceased, Carol Finney, Camille Ross and Sharon Wiggins all walked out of the room single file with the school administrator hot on their tail.
“I need some paper towels,” noted the disciplinarian as he glared at the young ladies on the opposite side of the counter while pointing at the blonde with glasses. “That Wiggins girl just urinated all over the floor in my office.”
“They each get two days of after-school detention,” he continued while looking at his secretary. “Send the other two back to class; but Miss Wiggins can wait in the nurse’s office until her mother brings her a change of clothes.”
“Send me a student that I can crack with the paddle,” he added before returning to his office with a wad of paper towels.
Upon hearing the principal’s last remark, Chris and I did a double take at one another before we were summoned to the inner sanctum wondering what was awaiting for us behind the heavy wooden door.
After Mr. Carson listened intently to the circumstances surrounding the reason for our trip to the office, we were elated to get off with a stern warning through a cracked smile.
My permanent record remained spotless for another day.
This column is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend Christopher Keith Rusilko (1 Nov 1966 – 16 May 2001). He will always hold a special place in my heart where my recollections of him live on.
Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.
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