Mr. Morris' class

In S.F. we often switched teacher's every semester. To our unfortunate future, we had Mr. Morris. I could still see him; graying hair, glasses and a disciplinarian.

Mr. Morris told us that his own children were in bed by 7:30. We all gasped.

One of the members in class was Michael Perrini. I don't know how old he was, but he clearly had flunked a few grades. He was by far the tallest. Everyone was afraid of him. During the summer I had learned a few choice words. I did not know what they meant other than the fact I was not to use them.

Mr. Morris had given the task for us to collect dictionaries. Everything was fine until I got to Michael. He would not give his dictionary. I finally used the "F" word and he gave it to me. Mr. Morris heard the use of the "F" word. He dragged me down to the office. He left his class. I knew I was in trouble. The halls were louder than the ever were before. He dragged me by the arm to the office. He brought me to an old lady, who was the principal. He wrote down what I had said.

The punishment was that I was to take home a note to my parents and have it signed.

My mom did not know what it meant. I know my dad knew it was bad, I knew it was bad. Bottomline, nobody knew what it meant. My father signed it and I returned it. That was the punishment. It was memorable, though. I never would have remembered the teacher's name.