I don’t remember a lot about 9th grade. Bits and pieces, mostly. I suppose that’s normal, considering it was 35 years ago. However, one story sticks out, partly because it has been retold a few times and partly because it is one of those moments where you look back and think, “Wow, that was dumb.”
Regardless, it was somewhere in my 9th grade year, and I was sitting in band. I loved band. In truth, my music classes were the reason I went to school most days. I did not enjoy my academics (hard to believe I went to eventually get my Ph.D., given how uninterested I was in school throughout my youth!).
I sat at the far end of the nine-member trumpet section. There were many of us, and due to my natural ability (because I hated to practice), I sat 1st or 2nd chair. Typically, this isn’t an important detail, but it mattered today.
Sometime into class, I saw a commotion in the 3rd trumpet section. There was animated whispering (we didn’t want to get yelled at by Mr. Wanzer), and something was being secretively passed down the section. Like a bizarre telephone game, the commotion quietly passed through the section until the person next to me finally tapped me on the leg. I looked to my right, and there was a small aerosol can.
I looked at the can to try and determine what it was. It was the late 80s, and junior high boys were fascinated by things like “whoopie” cushions, so it made sense that what was handed to me was a can of “fart spray.” A gag item designed to create a subtle undesirable scent that could be blamed on the person near you.
As I received the can, I wanted desperately to be seen as “cool” and “fearless.” I did not want to be seen as “smart” or “respectful.” Holding the can down next to me, I pressed the button for half a second. I heard the faint sound of the contents being discharged. We all paused. We smelled nothing. “Hmmm,” I thought, “Maybe it didn’t work.” I wasn’t to be deterred from my mission. Rather than give up, I did what any junior high boy would do: I doubled down on the stupid. I depressed that button for two or three seconds, possibly longer.
We all paused again, nothing. A few seconds later, it happened. The smell began to roll through the band. It was a powerful sulfur-based smell. Rotten eggs, mostly. Within moments, the entire trumpet section was quietly gagging/laughing and trying not to get caught by Mr. Wanzer. Then, the smell passed through the saxophones, which were much less composed of it. It wafted into the flute section, where the 15 - 9th-grade girls reacted precisely as you would have expected and not quietly at all. Finally, the smell reached Mr. Wanzer. He made a face and then, with little reaction at all, loudly sniffed and said, “Does somebody have a rotten egg salad sandwich for their lunch?”
Despite the commotion in the trumpet section, Mr. Wanzer left the incident there. The smell began to dissipate, and we continued with class. The trumpet section calmed, and within 15 minutes, the incident was behind us. Mr. Wanzer ended the class and said nothing about it. I believe I had gotten away with the whole thing. I put my trumpet away, grabbed my bag, and stood up. I turned to the back of the room, and that’s when I saw him.
The band room had a short staircase at the back of the room that led outside. Mr. Hutson, the assistant principal, was sitting on the landing. The detail I failed to notice at the beginning of class was that Mr. Wanzer was being observed that day. In junior high, I didn’t know what observations were—only a lifetime in education taught me the significance of Mr. Hutson’s presence. Because of his elevated location, he watched the entire incident unfold. I guess that rather than nip it in the bud, he wanted to see exactly what we would do. I looked at him, and he gave me a thin smile and a little wave. I booked it out of the classroom.
The time for my next class crept by. Thoughts of how much trouble I would get into clouded my mind and made it impossible to pay attention. Then the room phone rang. There was a short conversation, and then, “Doug, you need to go to ISS (in-school suspension).” After some predictable taunting, I collected my things and left. I walked down the hall and entered the ISS room, where the entire trumpet section was. We were taken to the Assistant Principal’s office one by one, never to return. Eventually, it was just me. Then the office secretary called my name. I sheepishly walked the enormous 45 feet to the office and sat down.
At that moment, I did the first smart thing I had done all day. Before being asked, I told him everything. I wholly owned my part in the sad little drama. My mother had one rule: don’t get in trouble in school. I knew it would be way worse when I got home if I did. So, I figured now would be a good time to come clean. I received two days of ISS for my part in the incident. Far worse was the disappointment I knew I would encounter when I told my mother.
I raced home at the end of the day because I wanted to make sure I told my mother before the school had a chance to notify her. I knew I would get into trouble, but I also knew it would go slightly better if I told her rather than trying to hide it and hope she didn’t find out. I can’t recall exactly how the conversation went when I got home. I am sure I was punished in some appropriate way. It is not like I never got in trouble. I was certainly capable of making poor choices.
I learned a couple of valuable lessons from this incident. First of all, know your surroundings! I am confident that if I had looked around the room on arrival and seen Mr. Hutson sitting there, I would not have decided to participate in passing the can. I wasn’t afraid of getting in trouble in school. I was fearful of Mom’s reaction when I got home.
Second, peer pressure and the desire to fit in can lead us to make some pretty poor choices. As you encounter situations when peer pressure is at play, carefully consider the outcomes and ensure you know why you are choosing. I would not have commonly chosen to disrupt class, but because I was desperate to be seen as “cool” in front of my peers, I was willing to do something I knew was wrong.
Third, always own up to your mistakes. I could have walked into Mr. Hutson’s office and denied everything. Even from his vantage point, there was a chance he didn’t see all the details of the incident. I could have said nothing to my mother and hoped they didn’t reach her. Neither of these were good choices. I am sure my “sentence” was lighter because I owned up to the incident as soon as I sat down, and I know Mom went easier on me because I told her as soon as I got home.
We make thousands of choices throughout our lives—some good, some bad, most somewhere in the middle. The key is to learn from each of them. What moments can you draw important life lessons from?
Be well!
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