When good kids go bad — The true tale of a teenager,a trash can, and a teacher

When good kids go bad — The true tale of a teenager,a trash can, and a teacher

By Dorothy Wilson ‘The Marion Mom’

[ Editor’s Note: The fol-lowing column originally appeared in the September 2017 edition of the Marion Ledger] Three weeks. All it took was three weeks.

My eldest daughter, homeschooled her entire life, entered an organized establishment of education this year.

Now, she’s a little delinquent. My girls, grades eight and nine, begged to attend the rivalry football game last Friday, but I had a previous engagement. I adamantly opposed their participation without adult supervision, due, of course, to the history of violent outbreaks in the bleachers.

They asked around until they found a friend whose parents would be in attendance. Unfortunately, she was rooting for West Memphis.

So, with no misgivings, I dropped off my Patriots at the Blue Devils’ side on my way to a marriage enrichment class at our church.

At 8:30 p.m., the texts began. “MOM! I GOT KICKED OUT OF THE GAME!”

She sent a textanovella, in shouting caps, adding that she was sobbing so hard no one could understand her, and she was still shaking.

This child, classic firstchild people-pleaser, would never intentionally break the law or disrespect the rules. In fact, she’s the one keeping all her peers from cutting line or shooting spitballs.

So I thought it was a prank.

But it turns out I was wrong.

The bottom line is, she was removed for tossing trash at a trash can.

Now, the trash can was on the ground, and she was forty feet above, on the top bleacher.

But hey, the child was throwing away her trash.

Ejected for unlittering.

Seems a little harsh, if you ask me.

Apparently, a group of hoodlums had previously been asked to cease and desist the extreme litterlaunch, but my child had neither been involved nor heard the request. So later, when she pitched her plastic bottle toward the trash barrel, an ominous man frowned and signaled to her with a crooked finger to exit the bleachers.

She was escorted away by a stranger, alone, without a friend or a phone.

It’s exactly what I told her not to do when I dropped her off. My final admonition was, “Stay in the group! Don’t go off alone!”

He said, “Are your parents here?” “No.”

“Do you have a phone?”

“No.”

I’m sure he was exasperated as he escorted her to the ticket booth.

There she sat, until her adult guardian for the evening, who happened to be a captain for the West Memphis police department, showed up to

retrieve her. He asked my daughter what happened, which sent her into blubbering sobs.

So he asked the guy who hauled her in.

I think he giggled a little when he heard the charges.

I mean, he’s a police officer, after all. He’s probably never had the pleasure of arresting someone for launching plastic products at a trash receptacle.

They asked him to remove her from the premises.

He tactfully requested, “Do you think it would be okay if I just took her back into the game and let her sit next to me the rest of the time?”

So there she sat as she used a friend’s phone to text me the whole story.

“Was there a trash can in the bleachers?” I asked.

“No.”

“Was the rule posted on a sign?” I asked.

“No.”

Y’all, I’m a parent. I get it. Kids do dumb stuff like jumping off roofs onto trampolines, riding bikes barefoot, whipping around a freshly-sharpened pocket knife, and hurling projectiles forty feet down.

It’s annoying… But hardly a criminal offense. I harbor no ill-will toward the sad adult who was just trying to maintain order during a historically disruptive rivalry match.

I chose to use the experience as a learning opportunity about the wrong-place, wrong-time, wrong-friends principle.

Then I shared a vivid memory of mine similar in theme.

Twenty years ago at Marion High School, I took Art with Mrs. Sally Ware.

Now Mrs. Ware knew what she was doing in art.

But she was a crotchety old woman with no tolerance for childishness or disrespect. (She also had a Porsche, which kind of counterbalanced her crankiness with a degree of coolness.) I, like my daughter, loved school and desperately wanted to please everyone in authority over me. When Mrs.

Ware began roll-call, I shut up, even if I was mid-sentence.

You would have, too, with one look from the daggereye.

Well one day, Mrs. Ware heard the tail end of a conversation quietly wrap up after she had called for silence. Her head was down, reading roll, and I think she randomly picked a female from the general direction of the reprobate. “Dorothy!”

she barked. (It really sounded like a bark.

I’m sure she smoked like a chimney.) “Get your stuff and get out.”

My jaw dropped open, and I hesitated, knowing I had done nothing wrong.

“Out!” she demanded again. “I will not tolerate talking.”

Then it hit me. I was taking the fall for the girl behind me, who, by the way, certainly didn’t own up to the infraction. And also who, by the way, was my cousin.

So I glumly gathered my backpack, clouds of injustice brewing in my heart, and landed outside her classroom, stewing for the next 50 minutes… during which time the assistant principal strolled by, did a doubletake when he saw Dorothy Stokes, Straight-A, Model Student, sitting in the dunce chair.

“Hey girl, whatchu doin’ out he-ah?” he asked with incredulity.

As I opened my mouth, giant heaving sobs of maltreatment swallowed my explanation and brought poor Mr. Rogers to bewilderment. I don’t remember what happened after that, but he probably laughed.

Just like I did this week when Captain Policeman disclosed his involvement in my daughter’s rescue. I hope, next year, Delinquent Daughter will be able to look back on this and laugh without trace of tears or shadow of shame.

And maybe root for the Patriots, for crying out loud!

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures their seven children provide. Her column appears monthly in the Marion Ledger. Her archived stories appear from time to time in the online edition of the Evening Times.

“The Marion Mom” By Dorothy Wilson