I entered the hallway timidly as my shortened breath and my bass drum heart prepared for punishment. And punishment was surely to come. The hallway stretched as far as my eleven-year-old frame could see. Each side of the dimly lit corridor was interrupted with classroom doors descending in grade from my fifth-grade science room all the way down to the realm of kindergarten. The focus of my fearful eyes was, however, intent on the looming figure that represented the only other occupant on the long and stoic hallway.
Mr. Phillips was probably only six feet tall, of slim build and sharply dressed from slacks to the Windsor knotted tie around his neck, but he towered above me in both stature and authority. He was a fine teacher and his lessons and illustrations have seeped deep into my memories for recall nearly 45 years later. His teaching this day was to be more powerful and memorable than all of the others.
It was an object lesson of a dreadful nature as he held an assignment bearing my name in the left hand and the board of education in the other. The board was probably pine with the obligatory carved handle and smoothed edges (either by design or extensive use). Some students of more bravery than I had signed it before heading on to the higher learning of Junior High School. I just wanted to get it over.
I knew my fate when summoned from the classroom to the looming hall. The paddle was not hidden as we exited together, and its target was not looking forward to the meeting. It wouldn’t be my first “licks” from such a barbaric device. It seems like every teacher from that point previous had at least once found some fault in my otherwise “cherub like” behavior and handed down the same sentence. This would although, be the last from any educator anywhere.
After a brief and very one-sided discussion, I assumed the position and the right arm of one of Grand View Elementary’s faculty took three quick but effective swings, each providing a bit more heat to my seat. I didn’t cry. I was already too tough to show such weakness and my reunion with the class was imminent. The pain was brief, and less than a minute later, was just a memory to relay to you like a historical event. The discomfort transferred from pine to denim passed soon, but the lesson stung a bit deeper.
My judge and executioner had entered a solitary exhibit. It was an assignment with a less than stellar grade in bright red incriminating ink. It wasn’t a failing grade although I can recall if it was a low B or a C. Either way it was the precursor to my punishment. I’m sure others had a lower grade than I, but they were noticeable absent from the hallway roll call.
Mr. Phillips only used a few words and only five that I know for sure. After unveiling my poor performance, he simply stated, “Maxwell, you can do better.” And I knew he was right. I was a straight “A” student and had simply not taken the assignment seriously. He knew it was not even close to my best effort and so did I. My unforgivable crime was not in a grade, but in not living up to my potential.
I haven’t thought about this fateful rendezvous for some time and never shared it. I don’t know what became of Mr. Phillips, because I never saw him after I finished his class for the year. I did however take a look at some to the assignments and tasks that have befallen to me decades later and his words rumbled back through time. I see my test scores from life that maybe are good enough for some, but not my best. The same words are now in my voice. “Maxwell, you can do better!” I can. I’m going to start now.
