By Paul Stapleton

Brother Stanley was green, a novice, not yet eligible to wear the habit or to teach in the order’s schools. Instead, he was assigned to teach in a grammar school under the auspices of the archdiocese, dressed in layman’s clothes. Stanley soon realized that the seventh graders were willing and able to trample all over his lesson plans. If he smiled at some wisecrack or turned a blind eye to any shenanigans, an effect would ripple across the classroom, call it pandemonium, and soon even the teacher’s pet was bouncing spitballs off Stanley’s necktie.

Desperate to clamp down on the shenanigans, Stanley was drawn in by the strangely hypnotic words of a certain Brother Gregory, a former rector put out to pasture upstairs in the attic of the building, which served as the school library. Brother Gregory seemed too fond of the old days, and he still owned a yardstick he called Matilda, a thick beam of maple, from God knows what century, kept next to the encyclopedias in the corner of his dusty kingdom,stamped Briggs Hardware and Sundries, an outfit no doubt long ago collapsed into sawdust. 

The kids were terrified of Brother Gregory as were the faculty and staff.

The old brother, nevertheless, charmed the young novice with his certitude. He recommended that Stanley implement a program of law and order. The cornerstone of the program was a weekly detention. The detentions would eat into Stanley’s Thursday night free-admission visits to the museums, but Brother Gregory insisted it was worth it. 

“Who needs art in the face of anarchy?”

Brother Gregory drew up a list of commandments, which he had Stanley hang in front of the classroom. They seemed odd, but at the same time fitting: Love God (He’s Got His Eye on You); Keep Holy the Classroom (No Spitballs!); Honor Your Teachers (No Matter Who They Are), etc. 

Infractions were tallied via checks recorded in a small notepad, which Brother Stanley was to carry in his back pocket like a beat cop. The first check initiated the detention, with each successive check adding another five minutes. 

“The consequences of delinquency,” Gregory explained, “must be registered in both mind and body.” Gregory placed the palms of his hands together as if in prayer, then clapped them imperiously. “The two are commingled.”

Brother Gregory was no Platonist. 

Each Thursday afternoon, Stanley had the students push together the desks in the middle of the room, which created a wide path around the perimeter. He then set them off tramping in circles. 

None of it worked. 

Before Stanley registered checks, he would announce transgressions aloud. 

“Check!” he would declare.

Complaints were lodged instantly, audibly, defiantly. Students demanding justification for any check given. 

“That’s not fair!” 

Stanley’s tallies were often called into question. Cacophony reigned. Once, he was even pickpocketed. 

The most mischievous enjoyed the weekly detentions and adjusted their behavior, downward, in hopes of extra checks. They ripped pages from their notebooks and manufactured “spit wads” to ensure detection. Others openly pitched pennies in the classroom. The artistically inclined drew pictures, conspicuously: animals—snakes, pigeons, elephants—flatulating, defecating, fellating, copulating. 

During detention, students competed to complete the most laps. Wagers were laid, small nickel-and-dime bets. A rule was established that forbade running—at the students’ request in the name of fair competition—so that detention turned into a student affair, call it a game, and in enforcing the rules, Brother Stanley felt more like an incompetent referee than a commander-in-chief.

After a month, Stanley had enough. 

His days as dictator were over. 

In an act of humility, and against Brother Gregory’s imprecations, Stanley informed the class that if they didn’t want to behave, he would have to quit. He liked them, but they did not seem to like him back. He was sorry. He only wished he could have been a better teacher. 

In an act of spontaneity, he pulled out the notepad and tore it in half. “I’m done with this,” he told them. “I wanted to be your teacher, not a cop.”

He meant every word of it. He was ready to quit. He had already scheduled a meeting with his superior, unsure of what he was going to say. 

Was he quitting the classroom? The order? Was he leaving the church? Stanley did not fully know the answer to these questions.

To his amazement, his act of humility rallied the students. They did not want him to leave.

“No, please, stay!”  

“Don’t go!” the worst of them implored him. “They’ll stick us with Brother Gregory.”

Stanley grasped the immediacy of this plea. 

Call it an epiphany.

The upshot was that he remained on board for the sake of his students, if not his conscience.  

Before very long, somewhat miraculously, Stanley actually began to like the job. 

At recess, the boys asked him to play spaldeen and skelzy, and the girls begged him into hopscotch and jump rope. 

Students arrived early and stayed late to help with classroom chores. 

They volunteered to lead the morning prayer and the pledge to the flag.

They memorized poems and aced their quizzes.

They practiced their penmanship.

Stanley inaugurated a kickball league and a debate club.

He organized class trips and let them vote on the destinations.

City hall or the county courthouse. 

The zoo or the botanical gardens.

The art museum or the music hall.

Parents volunteered as chaperones.

They let Stanley know how much their children loved him.

A doubt lingered, however, nurtured by Brother Gregory himself, whom Stanley did his utmost to avoid. 

One Friday afternoon, after the faculty meeting, Gregory cornered Stanley. 

“How are things with the troublemakers?”

“Pretty good,” Stanley responded. He could feel a blush spread across his face. 

“I’ve heard,” Brother Gregory said. Then he placed his hand on Stanley’s shoulder and  whispered into his ear, so close, Stanley could feel the spray of spittle. “That’s only because they know I’m upstairs,” the old rector assured him. “With Matilda.”