Fourth Grade: The Principal's Office

Fourth grade was everything at

Sherman School in Middletown, Ohio. My friend Carla and I were equal parts excited and scared.

Fourth grade heralded The Introduction to the Fountain Pen, a momentous step into adulthood in a 1950s curriculum.

Fourth grade also meant moving to the new building that housed the big kids and a major shift in recess. Hopscotch and circle games were out. We’d be expected to lurch around playing power games: crack the whip or dodge ball.

And sixth graders claimed the metal railing along the playground. Perched like proud birds, they jeered at those who challenged their dominance. They laughed at any gladiator who fell on the blacktop. Still, Carla and I were excited.

Every morning we walked to school up Logan Avenue and down Sutphin Street to a busy intersection where a Crossing Guard was stationed. A remarkably unchanged market stands there to this day.

Greg, a sixth grader, was our arrogant Crossing Guard. He delighted in barking orders. His rules required us to stop on the last square of sidewalk cement. We could not approach the curb until he signaled with his flag. He yapped about our crossing speed.

Occasionally a boy talked back, but good girls that Carla and I were, we kept our opinions to ourselves and obeyed all commands.

I suppose plenty of important things happened that year, but the event I remember best is the day I faced him down.

Carla and I reached the corner. No Greg. No other children. We waited. Cars whizzed by. The last bell clanged in the distance, meaning we’d have to run to avoid a tardy mark.

Holding hands, we stepped from the sacred cement square, looked both ways, and ran into the crosswalk.

“Halt!” Greg yelled. We froze as he emerged from behind a soft drink dispenser where an ice machine now stands. He waved his yellow flag like a battle banner.

“You broke the law!” he shouted.

“No fair!” Carla screamed.

“You’re not supposed to hide from us,” I insisted.

Red-faced, he announced he was the boss of us and that we had to be reported.

We raced to class. Carla cried because she knew we’d be in trouble. I was just plain mad.

Sure enough, we were called to the principal’s office. We’d never been in his huge, dark space. Greg stood beside the desk, smirking, his arms crossed over the white chest band with silver badge. The principal spoke about our alleged violation and asked if we had anything to say.

Carla cried again.

My cheeks flushed.

Crossing Guards were royalty. Who was I to contradict him? I’d be ridiculed by the sixth graders for attacking one of their own. But he’d deliberately set us up. And he’d made Carla cry because of his meanness.

So I told the truth about the incident.

The principal asked Carla if she agreed. She nodded her head. He released us back to class. I glared at Greg who no longer looked like King of the Hill. It hadn’t occurred to him that we’d defend ourselves.

He was stripped of his badge and flag.

To my surprise, sixth graders didn’t taunt me at recess.

At lunchtime the principal apologized to Carla and me for being put at risk in the streets. He commended us for being truthful.

On our walk home, Carla said I was brave. She bought a Mars bar, my favorite, at the market and gave it to me.

When I told my mother what had happened, she praised my honesty and said, “The three of you learned a lesson today. I’m sure the principal doubted Greg’s accusation. You and Carla now know the value of a having a good reputation. Greg learned the damage he’s done to his.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I believed my mother knew the experience would matter to me in the long run.

I had a notion that life would get more complicated.

In the meantime, my fourth-grade brain only understood that a candy bar was reward enough.