One lovely spring day back in 1985 when I was still young, I found myself reporting once again to room 102. This was the room just past the lunch area at Mountain View Elementary School where I spent the better part of six fine years. .
Room 102 was very familiar to me four rows of five desks, half of which occupied by close personal friends of mine, and a dark looming presence in the front of the room. I entered the room, turned my red slip over to Mrs. Bashner and made my way to my regular assigned seat. .
Waiting for me there was a small pile of lined paper and a lone pencil, not the fancy yellow #2 that I would later became familiar with but an ugly blue one, the kind with no easer. This particular one came with a freshly chewed end. .
Upon making myself comfortable and after giving a nod to a few of the other regulars, I dove into the task at hand. Arming myself with big blue and attacking the pages with .
I will not be disruptive in class.
I will not be disruptive in class.
I will not be disruptive in class .
The standards were tedious and slow going. I longed for something to break up the monotony, but Mrs. Bashner ruled room 102 with an iron fist. For her there were only two valid excuses to stop writing, either your hand fell off or you died.
Now having reached the forty-five minute mark and after the ninety-sixth "I will not be disruptive in class" both death and the whole hand falling off thing seemed like the easy way out. .
The harsh clearing of Mrs. Bashner's throat let me know that I had been day dreaming too long. Damn, she was on to me. Back to the "sentences" as she called them. I will not be disruptive in class a fire burned in my wrist I will not be disruptive in class. My fingers felt of pins and needles I will not be disruptive in class. .
I just don't know how much more I can take I will not be the bell rings, finally the bell, a nasty metal on metal sound that would be unsettling to most was music in the ears of children held captive in room 102.
