Another True Story
This one is inspired by my company having just had a fire drill today.
Once upon a time, when I was in the second grade at a Catholic school, we had a fire drill. The kids were all lined up outside on the playground by grade in single file. I happened to be standing next to a kid named Josh. "I wish the school really would burn down," he whispered.
This appeared to me to be the most brilliant piece of wit ever uttered by man. Naturally, I had to repeat it. "Yeah, I wish the school really WOULD burn down!"
It would be many more years before I learned how to speak in more discreet tones. My teacher, one Sister Elizabeth, overheard me, and it was no good protesting to her that I was merely repeating what Josh had said. (Such touching loyalty I had for my comrades.) He got off scot-free, while I, after we got back inside, had to sit in the corner and listen to the class sing "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands."
Incidentally, this was the same teacher who once sent me home with a note that said, "Bradley has a cold because God is punishing him for being a bad boy." Those nuns start instilling Catholic guilt early. (Believe it or not, in 13 years of Catholic school, only two out of my forty-odd teachers were ever nuns, though both of my principals were.)
Oddly, in spite of all this, I remember that by the end of the school year I actually liked Sister Elizabeth. How she pulled this off, I don't recall anymore. (Maybe Orwell would say, "He loved Big Sister.")
Once upon a time, when I was in the second grade at a Catholic school, we had a fire drill. The kids were all lined up outside on the playground by grade in single file. I happened to be standing next to a kid named Josh. "I wish the school really would burn down," he whispered.
This appeared to me to be the most brilliant piece of wit ever uttered by man. Naturally, I had to repeat it. "Yeah, I wish the school really WOULD burn down!"
It would be many more years before I learned how to speak in more discreet tones. My teacher, one Sister Elizabeth, overheard me, and it was no good protesting to her that I was merely repeating what Josh had said. (Such touching loyalty I had for my comrades.) He got off scot-free, while I, after we got back inside, had to sit in the corner and listen to the class sing "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands."
Incidentally, this was the same teacher who once sent me home with a note that said, "Bradley has a cold because God is punishing him for being a bad boy." Those nuns start instilling Catholic guilt early. (Believe it or not, in 13 years of Catholic school, only two out of my forty-odd teachers were ever nuns, though both of my principals were.)
Oddly, in spite of all this, I remember that by the end of the school year I actually liked Sister Elizabeth. How she pulled this off, I don't recall anymore. (Maybe Orwell would say, "He loved Big Sister.")