Contemplating war, peace and a sadistic shop teacher

Joe's reputation for mean leaked out of the high school and across the street to the junior high. I was in the seventh grade when I first heard the stories of his legendary prowess at hitting butts with paddles, not to mention his singular willingness to do so.

Joe was the shop teacher and wrestling coach. On the floor of the high school wood shop, painted in red, was the outline of two hands and two feet. It was called "the launching pad." It was here the condemned were made to stand, bend over and receive their blows. "Swats," we called them, and nobody hit harder than Joe.

My parents were both "old school," in that neither was given to coddling my complaints about teachers. Oh, sure -- I'm confident they would have intervened on my behalf had some teacher burned me with a lit cigarette or offered me drugs or tried to sexualize me. But at my house, if I dared to say "the teacher doesn't like me" or "the teacher is mean," I received no quarter.

My parents would shrug and say there would always be disagreeable people in life. I was admonished to respect adult authority and learn to get along. Simultaneously was I encouraged to take pride in winning people over. Move over, Dale Carnegie!

The gift of my parents' teaching is I'm not given to see myself as a victim. The downside -- and this is so embarrassing -- is that I'm always surprised when people don't like me. It's a cherished naivete.

I'm saying I was ready for Joe. As an entering freshman, I elected his class right off. I would not be dissuaded by his dangerous reputation or intimidating persona. Bright, charming, polite, well-mannered, inquisitive, affable -- I came loaded for bear.

I dropped his class on the fourth day.

On Day Four I wore a T-shirt on the back of which was a hand doing the popular "peace sign" of the '60s and early '70s. A voice behind me rumbled, "If you want peace, brother, you'll not find it here." I turned to find him standing behind me, eyes like steel, squared up like a gunfighter. In complete, utter, naive oblivion, I said, "What?"

He roared at me to take the shirt off. To turn it inside out, and put it back on. And I -- reduced to tears, terrified and ashamed -- did exactly that. Right there in class. Coughed up my soul. Would have stripped naked had he asked.

I was too much a product of the times to feel my own rage and indignation. But some deeper part of me moved my feet toward the dean's office. "I'm here to drop shop class," I said.

"Why?" asked the assistant principal.

My face contorted. Tears welled. "Because (Joe) is sadistic!"

Way pregnant pause. Moment of silence. Don't think that guy had ever heard that word come out of the mouth of a 14-year-old. But the principal quickly "came to," remembered his duty and scolded me for "being disrespectful." I was told to watch my mouth before I got into even more trouble.

And then he granted my request. I was dropped from the class. September 1971.

Thirty-six years and three months later, my friend called to say that Joe was dead. I found his obituary online. Oh my.

"Joe was headed toward the Olympics for swimming when World War II interfered. Joe served his country with honor and integrity fighting to save our freedoms and way of life. During WWII he was assigned to the Screaming Eagles of The 101st Airborne Division as a paratrooper. After storming the beach at Normandy, Joe fought all the way to the Battle of the Bulge. He was in France during Demarcation Day. His courage and bravery was rewarded by 3 Bronze Stars, 3 Purple Hearts, 1 Silver Star, and 3 Presidential citations and 1 French government citation to his unit."

The obit describes his teaching career as "amazing."

Oh, Joe. You thought my T-shirt diminished you, didn't you? You saw me as disdainful of your sacrifices, not to mention your crew cut. You were certain, weren't you, that intimidation and shame and humiliation and swift corporal punishment were tried and true means by which honorable manhood could best be encouraged out of boys.

I was just a boy with a T-shirt, Joe. I didn't know anything about anything. Certainly I didn't know you. And now I think I might have liked to.

Peace, Joe. In heaven, there is good news for us both. Bullying children is not allowed. Neither is mortar fire.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. His columns appears on Tuesdays and Sundays. Questions or comments can be be e-mailed to skalas@review journal.com.