The worst punishment I ever received at that place was being locked in a broom closet, in the dark, for three hours.
The school was Our Shepherd Lutheran Elementary located in a suburb of Detroit. The time was the mid-1970s.
I was in third grade when she locked me in the broom closet.
I say “she” because it was her who did it – my third grade teacher, Ms. Caul, who actually wasn’t that bad most of the time and who I even thought of as a friend some of the time.
But this time we knocked heads.
She wanted me to go up to the front of the class and join the other five kids who were serenading the rest of the class who were sitting at their desks.
She requested that I join the singing, that I head up front and begin to bust out in passionate song, singing hymns to the rest of the class as if I were some sort of transported hymn-singer, which I wasn’t. And far from it.
I was the kind of kid who wasn’t too good at joining, or singing (except when I was alone).
I had been sitting there at my desk looking at the happy hymn singers and thinking how pathetic and sad they were when she requested that I leave the security of my desk, head up front, and join them.
When I said no, she told me again to get out of my desk and march to the front of the room, pronto, buster.
When I said no again, she started walking down the aisle toward me, and she was here (which was there) before I even knew what hit me.
She was hovering over me, helicoptering above me, pointing at the front of the room and demanding that I take my place with the singing group.
I crossed my arms, turned my head away, and said no again.
Now she grabbed me by the arm, yanked me out of the chair, and dragged me to the front of the room.
Then she swung me around and slammed me (accidentally) into the kid at the end of the hymn-singing line.
Next she informed me that I would now be singing, not with the group, but as a soloist.
I had refused to sing in the group and it astonished me that she believed I would now consent to busting out in a solo for these fools.
I set my jaw shut tight, crossed my arms, and stared out at my classmates in their desks, all of whom seemed more horrified than I felt.
She began yelling, telling me to sing.
The truth was, I could not have sung at that point even if it had meant my life.
That was when she yanked me out of the room by the arm and marched me straight down the hall to the broom closet. For some reason, the light switch for the broom closet was on the outside of the little room, in the hall.
She threw the door open and with a great shove she fairly hurled me into the tiny room filled with brooms, mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies.
Then she slammed the door shut tight, locked it from outside, and turned the light off from outside.
I was alone in the broom closet, locked in, in the dark.
Like I said, I was in third grade, so that means I was either 8 or 9 years old.
I state my age as a reason for why I spent my time silently weeping in there, in rage and terror.
I felt like I’d been locked in a dungeon and, indeed, to this day I almost feel like I know what it’s like to be locked in a dungeon because of my refusal to join the singing fools.
Some people enjoy being cheerleaders for the system.
Some people see absolutely nothing wrong with groupthink, following the herd, living the life of a passive approver of the ways things get done around here, no matter how they get done, as long as the group gets what it wants and the majority rule, in a societal system that wants slaves for its great devouring jaws, and not even IT knows why, except that’s the way it goes.
“Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” said Ralph Waldo Emerson, and, “Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.”
The three hours might only have been thirty minutes.
When she let me out, she said, “I’m sorry Dale, but you had it coming to you and I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.”
Saragun Springs 
Drifter
She should have been fired and put in jail. If that happened today, think of the shitstorm. And she would have earned it.
I am about ten years older and violence (almost only to the boys) such as “hacks” was common, but nothing of that degree.
And that is the price we pay for standing up. Usually it returns bad memories, but maybe compliance would have felt worse somehow.
One must hope that the Karmic wheel turned up something equally heinous on Mrs Caul–probably so, but how come we never seem to see the people who hurt us get theirs?
Thoughtful look at the price of defiance. Like the Smashing Pumpkins say “The world is a vampire.”
Beware ICE and educational storm troopers.
Leila
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Leila
If I had the ability to quantify the amount of time I’ve spent upon this Planet lost in revenge fantasies, I would surely shock and stupefy even myself. This is also, without doubt, one of the primary reasons why HAMLET is one of the two or three most famous plays of all time, and will remain so – for all time.
Your own writing about childhood, in both fiction and nonfiction, was a main thing which inspired “The Drifter” to write this nonfiction-memoir-column about Barrigar’s childhood.
This column opened the flood gates for other column stories about childhood. I have compiled a long list. It will not be the only subject of The Drifter from now on. But I have planned to write more nonfiction stories about the days of yore, specifically lots of true tales from the 1970s (born in 1967).
The writing of this one was cathartic. I had forgiven her a long time ago; but I think I finally got my revenge!!!
Dale
PS: The only thing fictional in this column is her name.
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Drifter
No doubting the authenticity. I thought more about it after reading and I recall the incredible amount of verbal abuse. One teacher used to say “ignorant child!” to kids who scored low, and one said something to the effect of “there’s no helping people like you” in reference to the perception of poverty.
One old bitch got tired of kids asking to use the bathroom that she stopped letting them go and one boy shit himself in second grade.
Karma did show timely on that ocassion, the boy’s mother could be heard screaming at the principal
Leila.
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Drifter
Damn WP won’t let me extend the previous comment. The jerks. Just want to say that you have done well stirring memories. That is a good thing. Nothing is ever really forgotten!
Leila
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I am sure like many readers I was catapulted into the past reading this and our own experiences at the hands of people who were supposedly carers for the young. I had my legs caned when I was five for not standing still – Five! and not standing still. I was ridiculed for getting wet in the rain when the truth was that I had crawled under the door of an outside lavatory because the new wood had swollen and I couldn’t shift it. I was brought up not to answer back to adults and so these things just swept by unrecorded but even now at my era of advanced wisdom! (ha) they still sit there like black, seething bladders and Leila is right, we never seem to get the chance to see them get theirs. Wow this story has opened a broom closet of memories and I think all the bottles have spilled and the bag of moth balls has torn! dd
p.s I also was forced to sing in front of a class and that one incident took all the pleasure I once enjoyed from belting out a good tune – off key it might have been but there was joy in it until Miss Jones – evil little witch – forced me to audition for her choir despite my protest. Teacher’s eh. It might be a hard job and there are some wonderful ones but by gum there are some nasty pieces of work in the world.
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Dear Diane
Thanks for a great response to this true tale. It’s utterly excruciating to contemplate a little girl being punished in that manner for doing nothing but being a little girl; but the sharing of such details in such a manner is sure to be cathartic for all good-hearted readers.
Joan Didion wrote, “Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.” That is true, of course, for children just as much as it is for adults, but the little ones are at the stage where they have no idea what’s really going on around here, for the most part. Age brings “wisdom” and as innocence ends, we are able to protect ourselves emotionally a little better – but the scars remain!
Happily, life can change for the better in an instant, too, which seems to happen at least as often as the other way. This world is so much a balancing act.
D
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Hi Drifter
This is such an impressive peice of writing!
This is one that I would like to read every once in awhile and study what you have done here. Like how I read Carver’s work and Chekhov purely to experience the words of great writers.
The Title drew me in…Who knows what could happen in “The Broom Closet.”
To be honest, this is why I read. It’s a selfish reason but it’s also a dedication to learning the craft and to keep the ideas flowing. So I can engage again with the keyboard.
I felt transported back to Elementary School. I could see your young defiant self sitting at the desk. When you said “climb out” of–that sparked a memory. Something I haven’t thought of in years. You do have to climb in and out of those old desks with the scarred wooden tops that rise and you can drop your books and junk into its steel body. The bottoms studded with hard gum. Indestructible things that are probably still found in third world countries like obsolete war planes.
Great images and a crystal clear clarity that should be an example on writing!
Your teacher, you describe as a friend, got out of line with you. Sometimes fresh eyes have to see the abuse for what it was, and you have shown this in great and excellent detail. Isn’t that how it goes in our lives. Friends can hurt us worse than anyone. Especially a friend who has authority over you and you defy them. Teachers back then would put their hands on us and we probably deserved it. In this case I’m not so sure.
The singing and the antipathy and stubbornness to join them is amazing! This wall of defiance is the front-line of who you are. I’ve seen it on other faces and have been there myself. The hot tears of rage and fear of being locked in the broom closet was another great description and one knows all of this really happened. Even if this were fiction it really has happened.
I feel like it has happened to me in one way or another. Probably when they locked me up in jail. It’s that feeling of incarceration that can only come from experiencing it.
I like the ending and what she said, “You had it coming.” And you should agree.
All the while you are making a point about conformity and group-think. Brilliant!
it should go viral! I am not kidding! I hope it does.
CJA
P.S: This made me think of something that happened to me at the hands of a teacher. I’ve tried to write it before. After reading this and the power of this story it has inspired me. Thank you!
P.S.S: My alma mata, the Indiana Hoosiers beat the great and mighty Ohio State Buckeyes and are #1 for the first time ever in college football! The most exciting night I’ve had watching football in years! (Excuse all of the typos and excited fragments, lol).
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Christopher
Congrats on the Hoosiers! I played football in high school and I have a few true tales about that experience that I might try to pen in future. (I fought and argued with the coach a lot. Problems with authority seem to be one of my strong suits: a curse, and a blessing.) I seem to have a penchant for writing about the times “they” kicked my ass, or tried to, too. Probably because that’s where the drama is, for one reason, and also because that’s where writing can be the best revenge. The story about the undercover cops jumping my ass at the gas station, the horrible crowd experience at the No Kings protest this summer, and now this. I’m thinking of starting a whole series called “The Times They Kicked My Ass or Tried To.” Just kidding, but maybe not (have to find a better title if I go with this). Sadly, or maybe even happily, “they” have tried to get me in a million different ways for my entire life, starting even before kindergarten.
Reading your commentary is so awesome! You “get” my writing so well, it never ceases to amaze. Truly a kindred spirit kind of thing. And thanks for putting in the effort, too.
Also, congrats again on such a fantastically good photo gallery yesterday. The Drifter is super-proud to appear side by side with work of such high quality. The first photo is a mind-blower, and all are ART, in all caps.
We got six more inches of snow up here! Gotta go shovel out my car which is snowed in on the street…People get vicious about parking spots on the street around here during the winter. Last year some dude shot another dude for taking his spot after he shoveled it out (not in my neighborhood).
D
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Yes, Dale, you learned your lesson, and you expressed it well in your critique of groupthink, which, happily, no one can accuse you of. (Hope the incident didn’t give you claustrophobia!)
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Hi David
Yes, now that you mention it, I do indeed have claustrophobia, so much so that I can’t even watch the scene/s in Kill Bill 2 where Uma Thurman wakes up in the coffin. Along with nuclear war and great white sharks, claustrophobia is a top 3 fear of mine. Living in the Chicago area, the nuclear war thing is probably valid enough (for we are surely on their radar, whoever “they” are). But the fact that I’ve spent 98% of my life in the Midwest makes the great white shark thing a bit more mysterious.
I had never connected my claustrophobia to the broom closet incident until now. Thanks for the therapy session!
Dale
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I live in fear of every needing an MRI!
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David
I needed an MRI after I had a stroke. I told them no F-ing way and please isn’t there anything else they could do about this.
The answer was General Anesthesia!
So I had the MRI but was completely unconscious during the whole thing.
Dale
PS
Since then I’ve looked at the pictures. Quite weird to see a section of white space on the right side of my brain that is dead now and can never return or regrow. And yet, I guess I didn’t need it because I have zero side effects at all.
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Forgot to mention that today is the 84th anniversary of Pearl Harbor.
As the people from that time dwindle in numbers, as we all must, never may their sacrifices be forgotten.
Leila
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Leila
My grandfather was a foot soldier who fought in the Battle of the Bulge. I asked him once what it was like and he said he had never talked about it to anyone and would never be able to talk about it to anyone. I have no doubt that was true until the very end.
I believe the sacrifice was even harder (in many ways) for the women who had to wait at home for news of their men. I know this because of my grandmother.
Dale
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Dale
Yes, my Uncles were in it. My father was the youngest and served in Korea (born 1932).
I believe that the Bulge was the event in which Vonnegut was taken POW.
Leila
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First and foremost, I’m sorry about your stroke,Dale. Secondly (by a wide margin ) I’m happy to hear general anesthetic is an option.
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