Chapter 18: Donald's Stocking

       (This picture has nothing to do with Donald nor his stocking. But I like it.)

It was Christmastime 1985. My sixth-grade year, which will also go down as the year I had my first “plain-clothes” nun for a teacher. Sister Marion seemed so modern; she came to my school after working in the Chicago projects. She wore polyester pants instead of a habit; her fall and winter polyester was all dark and muted, but in the spring she’d bust out Easter-y bright pinks and greens. Sister Marion had a short Afro that had turned prematurely grey; she picked it out every day after her lunchtime recess walks. She also did something each day she called “taking our temperature.” Every morning we’d go around the room and tell the class how we felt that day. We could say we felt fine or sad or mad or happy. That way Sister would know exactly what our mood was, and if we needed a little extra care and feeding.

That particular Christmas, Sister Marion had all of us construct small red stockings out of construction paper and write our names on them. Everyone’s stocking was then passed around the room. The idea was that everyone would write something nice on everyone else’s stocking, such as “nice” or “funny” or “Best Bobcat Goldthwait impersonator.” (Man, he was funny in those “Police Academy” movies, right?) It was the Christmas season, we were spreading good cheer … what could possibly go wrong?

The stockings went around the room, and we all got our feedback from our classmates. I don’t really remember much about my own stocking because the whole exercise was overshadowed by “The Donald Incident.” Somehow word got back to Sister Marion that Donald’s stocking had a not-so-nice word on it. I don’t think Donald himself really cared because he knew it was a joke, but Sister was not amused. (By the way, the word was dick, which still makes me giggle. Because there was that stocking with all of those kind adjectives written on it, and then right smack in the middle was dick. What can I say? Sixth-graders are quite eloquent.)

The obvious guilty party was Shawn, Donald’s close friend, as well as the only 15-year-old in the sixth grade. It was his writing, it was his brand of humor, and it was just his style to do that. Shawn was the kid who was perpetually stuck in “Observation Row,” another one of Sister Marion’s inventions. Our desks were all situated in an L-shape, except for a separate short row of desks, where Sister Marion also sat with us (when she wasn’t at her real desk). If you missed some assignments or otherwise screwed up, your desk would be moved there so you could “observe” the other well-behaved children – and then hopefully strive to get out of the embarrassing Observation Row. Shawn was out of Observation Row for approximately two days out of the entire school year. And yet still he was allowed to get his temporary drivers license. In sixth grade.