I spent eight of my twelve formative school years at an all-boys, military-style school. There were very strict rules in place that included us (the student body) having to be punctual, wear our uniforms a certain way, shine our shoes, address our teachers with specific language, stand up in class when an adult entered, follow strict homework guidelines and line up in the hallway before every class. These values were drilled into us so much that more than 40 years later, they're still part of my (and probably most of my classmates) DNA.
Most of our teachers adopted the golden rule: we would all be held accountable if one student broke a rule. Our Latin teacher was notorious for lining up our entire class and giving every one of us "six-of-his-best" with his cane when one of his rules was broken.
It was in our collective best interests and insurance from welts on our asses to follow the rules.
However, there was one kid in our class who was always disgruntled. Most of us thought he was "weird," but he was angry at the world that other kids had things he didn't have.
Knowing the consequences of breaking the rules in the first semester of 8th grade, this kid intentionally came late for class. A few times. He seemed to find solace in knowing that he could control our destiny and his one way of finding joy was in his ability to make us feel pain, even if it meant he had to feel the pain with us. The saddest part for him was that he seemed angrier the more we healed.
Needless to say, after his third lateness, during a rugby game in PT class, some of my classmates decided to have a chat with him about his tardiness, and the situation was resolved.
And over time, the more we ignored him, the faster he disappeared into the shadows.
Veritas
Let's do this
- Shaun