Life_Realizations

Gang of Misfits: A Collection of Stories from the Yellow Bench My hands were shaking; sweat was beading above my brows. I carefully maneuvered my hands around the two and a quarter kilo’s of sugar crystal, being tentative to sudden, audible movements that would guarantee my capture. With the crunchy plastic that encased the “goods” firmly in my hands, I darted for an exit. My swift burglary was approaching the finish line. Success was inevitable… It was 5th Grade. My classmates were no longer children. The innocence of childhood was fading. This is the period when the world became real to me as well as many of my classmates. Many of us became aware of a society full of sex, drugs, and people who do not recycle. Coming from a comfortable Grand Rapids suburb with religious families, being educated by a private Christian school, and having close-knit church communities were universal upbringings my friends and I shared; all being factors that played into the ignorance of issues that were real outside of our safe Christian bubble. I was a hefty, sweater wearing goody two shoes my whole life, never questioning authority. Things were good. In exchange for following rules, I would get rewards. I received incentives of extra TV time, cookie and cream ice cream, or even a new beanie baby on a rare occasion. The benefits outweighed the restrictions leading up to my 5th grade year. All my friends at the time shared the same obey-eat-sleep lifestyle. We were essentially pets to an unproblematic society that controlled us. I continually repressed the feelings of rebellion that had been building inside me. A part of me wanted to voice my recent anarchistic feelings, but never knew how to due to my upbringing. My anger was like an unset rattrap, desperately wanting to leave a bad impression on the rat of rules and authority, but requiring to be set up first. The introduction of criminal activity in the real world was the perfect set up; I was ready to be triggered. The filthy rodent didn’t stand a chance! The whole thing attracted me; it was a way of rebellion, and an escape from never challenging rule makers. My friends and I were in unanimous agreement to starting a criminal organization in our grade school as a way of channeling our anger. The Bad Boys Brotherhood was open for business. Prior to this Bad Boys fiasco, the concept of the yellow bench was foreign to me as well as my gang-mates. The view from the bench quickly became a familiar one. The yellow bench was our school’s harshest discipline system. Instead of recess, the rule breaker was deemed unfit for free time, resulting in spending the day’s recess trapped on the bench. There was no honor system involved with serving your sentence. All eyes would be on you to confirm that a maximum amount of humiliation would be doled out. This was social torture, watching classmates discussing recess drama. Being out of the loop was difficult, but it was a minor setback compared to the chaos the Bad Boys were established to create. ` Each member of Triple B had a specific role. The Schemer position belonged to Keith. He was Dutch in appearance and cold at heart; hateful and emotionless. He had the responsibilities of cooking up destructive recipes even though he was too shy to carry them out. This is where our next comrade came into play. The leader, Mr. Carter, was an unpredictable character who was willing to be the front man, taking the fall when our plans went off track, which they did more than I would like to admit. He was a head taller and 3 waist sizes smaller than the rest of our grade. While he stood out for being the lanky goon he was, I stood out for the opposite reason. Due to my tank like size, I was the physical force of the group. I also acquired the artist position, in charge of leaving graffiti advertisements for our clan around the school. The final role went to a mysterious character that went by the name of undertaker. Even though he was usually in the shadow of our plans, he was considered the most influential and effective member. You would find him sprawled under an apple tree outside of our school grounds during a normal recess. He was willing to follow through with certain aspects of our plans that even Mr. Carter would not participate in. Every single member shared the sheltered upbringing we all desperately wanted to spite! Our newly established team of trouble makers found sustenance from a false sense of respect and accomplishment through young fear. Breaking snow forts that were constructed with hours of labor. Trapping younger victims in the slides. Reporting kids that would later lose play time for the crimes they were innocent of. The list goes on, but in all our schemes a large “BB Forever” would be strategically advertised on the surface of the schools brickwork in the most menacing handwriting possible. This job of sending a message after each Bad Boys strike belonged to me. It was about making an impression on the younger grades through the innocence of sidewalk chalk, subliminally displaying the message that everything is corruptible. Business was good. Students in grades below us approached recess with caution, watching out for the notorious BB’s. The immediate power and authority that flowed out of our rebellions completely seduced the weak minds of our grade school gang and eventually began to contaminate others. As a result, we picked up a few dedicated followers, with the most memorable being “Twitchell.” His legal name was Mitchell, but a name change was necessary because he had the Hyperactive disorder known as ADHD and frequently flushed the pills he was prescribed. Every now and then a few individuals would get caught by our rivals, the treacherous teachers. They would pick us off one by one giving us minimal punishment for our crimes, but had never captured us all at once. Our Gang could survive as long as we had at least one member out continuing the work. This set up led to a business that could thrive despite the teacher efforts to shut us down. The future outlook for the Bad Boys was seemingly invincible. A particularly cheerful mood filled the air one late-spring day. Summer break was in sight and it reflected the attitudes of the teachers and students alike. This premature hope on the teachers end needed to stop, and we were just the clan that could make it happen. Our final endeavor would require all the gas we had in the tank, every representative of the Bad Boys was required. The plan was to break into Mrs. Kingman’s lower right hand drawer to obtain the 5 pound candy reward and distribute it among the same kids we tortured. This Robin Hood-like heist was a way to repay them for the wrong we had previously done. The goal was to gain support for the Bad Boys’ cause to battle the oppression of the school faculty. Step one was getting someone on the yellow bench intentionally. Easy enough; we sent Twitchell to a “meeting” on the restricted woodchip pile, a serious offense at our grade school, and then reported him to the scholastically elite. Mrs. Kingman was the head of such things, and would have to escort him to the bench during noon break, our window for action. After the controlled Bad Boys bust, step two posted up Keith (the author of this masterpiece), Mr. Carter, and another member at all entrances leading up to the crime scene. Our look outs were dispatched once Mrs. Kingman had passed with her prisoner. Undertaker and I were in charge of the dirty work. The drawer containing our high fructose “booty” was always locked, but was on this rare occasion, left suspiciously wide open. Blinded by our sugar lust, we thought nothing of it and proceeded to go on our way with the plunder of candy. Our triumphal exit was greeted by none other than Mrs. Kingman and her entourage. We were defenseless against the awaiting authorities featuring the company of our principal, Stern Vern. Neither of us could deny our hand in the string of crimes around the school when he got involved. Twitchell earned himself the new nickname of Snitchell when we found out he was the reason for our capture. The yellow bench was our throne to our newly established kingdom of shame; sentenced one week, with no bail or phone call. They say a day in prison changes a man; imagine what a week in the yellow slammer would do to impressionable 5th graders. The change that confinement brings is either a difference that is considered desirable or a bitterness that unleashes the contrary. A week of reflection over our actions shaped every member in a unique way; most for the better, and one for the worst. Pouring out of our personal change flowed new roles for our thriving friendship we share today. Kieth remains a schemer; still concocting elaborate ideas for our enjoyment, just not at the expense of other people. To this day he is haunted by shyness, but is able to cope with it by expressing himself as an engineer through designs not his words. The best noun to describe the present Mr. Carter would be a Leader. He demonstrated leadership by accepting a role in the US military, a brave honor few of us would dare consider. I no longer physically represent a tank, but moreover grew spiritually the size of one. The label of artist still applies although it is through a different media than chalk. I am an avid guitar player that expresses musicianship and faith simultaneously with positions leading worship on multiple praise teams. Our relationship with “Snitchell” has been reconciled on both ends, although keeping his nickname of Twitchell has been one of our terms in the “Restored Friends Agreement.” His twitching can be seen in any televised Michigan game, just look for the seizure-like tuba player in the marching band. A week on the yellow bench brought out change in individual ways, and that change is not always the one we could hope for. Undertaker’s demise was brought out by his personal take away from the days on the bench. His unquenchable vengeance came from his blindness to the concept of punishment. He always assumed that the Bad Boys’ consequences were to shut him in rather than set him up for growth. Now he is shut in, seeing the outside world through metal bars. The thrill of our childish candy robbery carried over to his shady adult life of break-ins and shoplifting that landed him in his prison predicament. Why does one fall, and the rest shine when found in the same challenging situation' Perhaps, it is because life shapes us not by the situations we are in, but rather molds us through our interpretation of the situation followed by a simple, personal choice: either good or bad. The problem was not the Bod Boys leaving Undertaker; it was that he could never leave the Bad Boys. Life keeps moving and if we can’t learn from our mistakes our past will always catch up, thus narrowing the path to a successful future. That was the day four out of the five learned one of life’s most valuable “fortune-cookie” lessons: there is no time to undertake in self-pity, otherwise self-pity will undertake you!