I look back to it as a defining moment-- a demarcation line, a sort of scorched wasteland, between childhood innocence and street smarts.
I was probably ten-- a year older than most of my classmates in the 3rd Grade. I was a year late going to the 3rd Grade because I was made to stop going to school-- barely a month into the school year, and had spent the rest of the year, because there was nothing better to do, hunting dragonflies on an open sewer canal that ran in front of our apartment complex. I went back to school in the year that followed, but had to carry the label of a “drop-out” and consequently must “repeat” 2nd Grade. My return to the educational system, however, was marked by a recognition for academic excellence-- a Gold Medal. And because of this I was upgraded to the "Honor Class" for the 3rd Grade and transferred to the “Morning session” where the pupils, I was made to understand, were supposedly "smarter" than the “Afternoon session”.
And so there I was: the “Afternoon session” upstart diving into the big pond to swim with the big fishes. But, it was more like swimming with fish fries and shrimps for all my classmates were smaller-- not only in height, but in overall body mass; maybe waking up early in the morning had stunted their growth. To make matters worse I was tall for my age; and so I stood out even more-- all for the wrong reasons. They referred to me as the “Transferee” but they make it sound like it was some kind of a contagious disease. But, after the “second grading period” I was no longer seen as a threat. I did poorly in Arithmetic; worse in Music; even worst in P.E. Though I was good enough in anything that involved the American English language, I was no longer in the running for the Honor Roll. By sheer lack of aptitude for numbers (as well as lack of musical and athletic ability) I was condemned rather than helped; but, being in the shadows was liberating. Nobody was watching me anymore.
It was a time when teachers could still whack a pupil’s butt for being a “bad” boy (or girl); it was also okay to torture a child by making him stand or kneel for hours. Aside from emotionally scarring a child for life, it was also a deterrent for bad behavior; and it was certainly at the back of everybody’s mind whenever mischief is contemplated. It worked, too; well, most of the time. But it also worked, I think, the other way around-- it encouraged innocent little boys and girls to do whatever should be done to save their butts.
It was certainly on my mind one night as I sat on our dining table staring at a copy of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. It was huge. It was hard bound with what appeared as rough cloth and it was so thick I couldn’t grasp it with one hand. I stared at it for a long time. Our English teacher required the class to bring a dictionary in school the next day; and so I sat there while I consider bringing the behemoth to school if only it could fit in my bag-- it didn’t; it was actually bigger than my bag and I doubt I could carry it for more than ten paces.
And so, the next day I went to school sans a dictionary. Our class was buzzing that day. Everybody is into some kind of gag, scuffle, joke, or shoving match on top the excitement over the assignment for that day. Everyone around me were flashing their spanking new pocket dictionaries though English class would still be after recess. Noticeably, most the dictionaries looked the same; obviously published by the same printer and even bought from the same store. A germ of an idea flitted through my mind. And, without really meaning to, I took a mental note of where my seat mates were stashing their dictionaries.
The three morning classes breezed by then the bell for recess sounded shortly; class was dismissed and the usual rush for the door followed. I lingered; and as soon as I was alone, I fished out five similar pocket dictionaries from my classmates’ bags; made sure that indeed they were copies from the same publisher; and that they did not bear any name or mark; shuffled them; threw two copies over unto the top of the cabinet-cum-blackboard; switched the other two with two more dictionaries randomly picked from two other bags; the last one I tucked under my waist band. That done, I ran down to join my classmates for recess. Made sure I was seen then went straight for the restrooms and locked myself inside a cubicle. Alone once again, I pulled out the dictionary.
The bell rang once again signaling the end of recess. I ran up the stairs and managed to be the first inside the classroom. I pulled out the dictionary from my waist band and dropped it unto yet another classmate’s bag. Even before our English teacher came, there was already a bit of a commotion around me.
The teacher eventually restored order and to sort the matter out, asked that all the dictionaries on our row:-- two pupils seated together, eight deep, sixteen pupils in all-- be passed and stacked on her table. Only the boys were involved and while there are girls in the class, there is a wide aisle in the middle to separate the boys and the girls. She examined them and looked for identifying marks; then, she held up the dictionaries one at a time and asked the owner to come up and claim them.
Finally, she held up the last three unclaimed dictionaries and asked those who were still missing theirs to examine them. Five stood up. As they walked up to the front of the class, I raised my hand and the teacher motioned me to come up as well. We were asked to examine the three copies left. One was claimed by a classmate who explained that his had a tear on a page just like the tear on one of the two copies left; the ownership of the other was settled by a bookmark. One copy was left-- with four claimants. I stared at the lone unclaimed dictionary and contemplated my options. Then something like a sneer or a smirk uncontrollably quivered on my lips. I covered my mouth with a hand fearing I would break out with an uncontrollable laughter. At this point, all is good. It would not be right to "punish" all four of us; after all, we were victims. And the culprit is yet to be caught. So, no harm done. I've saved my butt and after a few days everything will be sorted out. It could have stopped right there.
Then a classmate grabbed the dictionary on the table and declared that it was his. I heard screams inside my head: Liar! Opportunistic thief!
There was silence for a second or two. A second more would have cemented his claim.
And so I spoke, rather sheepishly, requesting that if they would be kind enough to check page 57 of the dictionary, they should find certain letters had been encircled with pencil-- the letters should spell out my name.
"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."
--Jonathan Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects, Moral & Diverting
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