Middle School Memories: When Innocence is Shattered

I sat down in front of the principal’s desk, my hands shaking and my heart nearly beating out of my chest. He said I wasn’t in trouble, but being in trouble was the last thing on my mind. After a short exchanging of pleasantries, the interrogation began and I knew that middle school as I knew it had ended.

After the meeting, I walked slowly back to my history class, trying to understand exactly what had led to the administration investigating my language arts teacher. The injustice of it all astounded me; the day before, he was playing around with my class, jokingly giving out extra homework assignments. Now, without warning, he was inexplicably removed from our lives on a vague accusation of misconduct. I worked sporadically for the rest of

class, distracted by the office aids knocking on the door every five minutes to lead the next round of students to the front office.
My next classes blurred together, and I soon found myself face to face with an overly happy substitute teacher. Mentioning nothing about Mr. Lankford’s disappearance, she wrote her new rules on the board:
1. Read a chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird quietly when you enter.
2. When you have finished, check to see what the annotation assignment is.
3. Do not talk.
It was such a stark contrast with the loud and relaxed atmosphere of our usual language arts class that many of us didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We spent the first half of class engaged in a silent battle of wits with this new, nameless teacher, but eventually we decided that the fight was futile and pretended to read our books. I sat at my desk in uneasy silence, exchanging worried glances with my fellow students only when I was confident that the substitute could not see me.
As the days passed, the likelihood of Mr. Lankford returning diminished. We refused to sit silently at our desks, writing annotations like the complacent children we were expected to be. Instead, we began a campaign in attempt to bring justice to our beloved teacher and put him back in his classroom. One week and countless ignored letters later, we heard nothing of Mr. Lankford’s fate. Incapable of believing the worst, we pushed on, but perseverance became difficult when we faced opposition from the system put in place to protect us.
Another week crept by before the reality of the situation sank in and we finally allowed ourselves to come to terms with the fact that our wholly inadequate substitute teacher would stay with us for the rest of the year.

The eighth grade formal was fast approaching, but what should have been a joyous occasion had turned sour, tainted by resentment and anger. Our other teachers tried their hardest to lighten the mood, but my friends and I spent most of the evening gathered in a small group in the corner of the dark gym, reminiscing about what used to be and wishing we could do something, anything, to make a

difference.
The news of his resignation travelled quickly through the school.

In the end, the combined efforts of Mr. Lankford’s students, both past and present, did nothing to bring him back. Disheartened by the administration’s lack of response to our letters and questions, we spent the remainder of the day in shocked silence.

Justice is not the result of a secret verdict made by a powerful few. Rigged interrogations and a lack of communication accomplish nothing and only create widespread unrest in the ranks of the many. Cedar Valley Middle School did not give Mr. Lankford the respect he deserved, and both he and his students suffered greatly. Perhaps I’ll never understand what happened at the end of eighth grade, but I know one thing for sure: at my school, order took precedence over

justice.