Mr. Shell's Platoon

I can remember only a handful of my teachers from school. Most of my memories of my teachers are unremarkable except for one. That pivotal year of fifth grade--when one is moving from elementary school onward to high school--was the year I can never forget.

We didn’t have middle school as a transition from elementary to high school. Some of us had Miss Henderson, a Girl Scout role model in the best sense of the word, while others of us had an ex-Marine, Mr. Shell. I’m not sure how class rolls were determined, but after the first week of school, I knew I had drawn an unlucky lottery ticket.

Every morning after the pledge of allegiance, Mr. Shell had us stand next to our fixed desks and do jumping jacks and march around the room while singing:

"Give me some men who are stout-hearted men
Who will fight for the right they adore.
Start me with ten who are stout-hearted men,
And I'll soon give you ten thousand more.
Oh, shoulder to shoulder, and bolder and bolder…”

In elementary school, I understood that the word “stout” meant heavy-set, heavily built, even fat--especially when referring to females. Marching around the room in my dress, pigtails, and brown shoes was my first encounter with another meaning of “stout”-- brave, courageous, bold, etc. This meaning of “stout” explicitly suggested what I already suspected: I should be tougher. Although I knew this would help me “stand on my own two feet,” I wasn’t there.

70 years ago, Mr. Schell unintentionally introduced me to characteristics that people need: self-reliance and resilience. Just as females need to be brave, courageous and bold, males need the female characteristics of listening, nurturing, and empathy, but that wasn’t demonstrated by him.

I felt intimidated by Mr. Shell. Perhaps it began when I walked into class with my first pair of glasses. He was quick to greet me with, “Well, hello, four-eyes!” Some boys were sporting horn-rims, but I was the only girl in the class with such an obvious deficit in need of remediation.

As the year progressed, I grew more disdainful of Mr. Shell; I just couldn’t get used to him. One day, when my questions about  how to convert fractions into percentages weren't answered, I lost it.  And, I chose a fifth grade  gesture of sticking my tongue out at him. Since Mr. Shell usually sat in the front of the room with his head riveted on the papers he was correcting, I wasn’t expecting him to see me. My timing was off. Consequently, he walked me to the library to wait and sit unattended to imagine what punishment would be meted out at the end of the day.

Would it be 100 push-ups? Running around the school outside multiple times until I fell and dragged myself to the finish? Boot camp in full view of my peers? Surely, it would be a Marine-worthy feat. Something that a stout-hearted fifth grader should endure to make her tougher.

Despite Mr. Shell’s effort, I didn’t develop any courage or bravery that year. From then on, I just kept  my head down to survive and get through the year.