Picking Apples And Enduring Truth
Lessons From Second Grade.
When I was in second grade, three classmates and I snuck into a field adjoining our playground to pick apples. We would go into that field with adult supervision to tend the class garden, but we were not to go there by ourselves.
We were spotted and brought before a teacher. “What were you doing in the field?” she asked the first of us. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Go sit in the hall until recess is over,” he was told. The second one of us was asked the same question with the same result.
I was the third to be asked. I wanted to tell the truth, but I was scared. I opted for safety and gave the “I don’t know” answer. As I was heading to the hall, the last of us, Sasha, was asked. “Picking apples,” she confessed. “Thank you for telling the truth,” the teacher said. “You may go back outside and play.”
I remember being really mad at myself. I had wanted to tell the truth, really I did, but I couldn’t summon the courage to deviate from the answer my peers gave. Sasha summoned that courage, and she got to return to the playground. If she had been asked before me, I am sure her example would have inspired me to tell the truth also. It was such a vivid lesson that I remember it to this day, long after most of second grade has dissolved into the mists of time. I even remember Sasha’s name. We never know what impact our examples set.
Four Years Later:
During my sixth grade summer, I was in a day-long bible program. I did not know any of the other kids; I was not a member of the church. My single mother needed a place to park me during the day so she could work, so there I was.
Naturally, I wanted to fit in. When I heard some boys sitting near me talking with excitement-filled voices about a plan, I pretended to know what it was all about. One of them affirmed that I knew the secret. I was in. As I found myself sneaking down an unfamiliar hallway my 12-year-old body filled with a tingly warmth. It felt great to be part of something. Something secret. This was adventure!
It happened very quickly: Two of the boys picked up cases of warm pop sitting next to a vending machine. An adult appeared and gave a shout. We scattered. The next thing I knew, I was running full tilt through the unfamiliar building. I burst into a large room. Ignoring the seated children and the man standing in front of them, I bounded toward the door open to the outside. Suddenly I heard a commanding voice yell “STOP!” I froze.
I was taken to a room where my cohorts were gathered, their eyes downcast. A stern man began interrogating us. The other boys either did not answer his questions or mumbled “I don’t know” or “nothing”. I remembered second grade: “Stealing pop,” I ventured.
I still had to spend the rest of the day sitting in the hall in “time out.” However, telling the truth spared me the fate of the other boys: facing their angry parents summoned unexpectedly in the middle of the day. My mother never learned of my exploit.
The funny thing is, I don’t even like pop.
