Aw, Shoot!

  Sixth graders can be mature enough to work together if they want to, and sometimes they will in order to earn the "A", or better yet, to help a classmate execute a clever scheme.  I was made aware of this fact in a very surprising way, back in the innocent days before school shootings and zero tolerance.

  James was a very intelligent 12-year-old with a pleasant nature and a friendly smile that he sometimes used to win friends and influence people.  He sometimes used it to win favors from me for himself and his classmates: a better place in the lunch line, an extra day to turn in an assignment, and so on.  He probably grew up to be a political lobbyist who is winning special funding for somebody somewhere.  I hope he works for AARP*, because I would definitely want him on my side.

  But there were times when I couldn't accommodate him; he would ask for something that wasn't possible; I'd have to say no.  When this happened, his disappointment would invariably be expressed in a quick,  "Aw, shoot!" then he would retreat to his desk to plan the next scheme.

  I'm not sure what twist of mischief got into me, but one day I decided to take him literally the next time he said, "Aw, shoot!", so I bought a toy cap gun and a roll of caps, loaded the gun and stashed it in my middle desk drawer, waiting for the next interchange.  It didn't take long.

  

   A couple of days later he approached my desk a few minutes before lunchtime with his charming smile and a twinkle in his big brown eyes that was calculated to win my favor.

  "Mr. Sims, have you noticed how well we've been studying this morning?"

   He paused, surveying the class so I would see it was true.  The students were all quietly working on an assignment and the entire room was a sea of tranquility.

   "Yes, it's been a great morning." I agreed.

  "Well, don't you think we deserve to leave early for lunch and get to the cafeteria ahead of the fifth graders?"

  I had to turn him down.  "No, sorry, I don't think the kitchen staff would like that."

  The anticipated moment arrived. "Aw, shoot!"  He turned and started to walk away.

  I quickly opening my drawer, pulled out my pistol and fired at his retreating back. "Bam! Bam! Bam!

  In an instant of surprise, James whirled around to see what I'd done and his ankles crossed and he crumpled in a heap on the floor in front of my desk!

  I glanced across the room and saw a shocked look on 27 young faces as every student's brain went into hyperactive mode trying to figure out if what they had seen had actually happened:  Their teacher had just shot their classmate with a gun!

  Presently, James straightened out his legs and stood up, and a collective sigh of relief was heard across the room.  Quickly trying to pull together what was left of his 12-year-old man-pride, he faced me with a look that was somewhere between betrayal and grudging respect.

  "Mr. Sims." he said, and there was scolding and appreciation mixed together in his tone.

  "You said, Shoot."  I replied, while the blue smoke hung lazily above my desk.

  He studied me for another moment while barely shaking his head, then turned and silently retreated to his seat.  

  There was a general murmur that ensued for the next few minutes;  we were done studying for the morning, and so we headed to lunch... after the fifth graders.

  Now here's the puzzling thing that followed this little show:  Nothing.  I mean, if I had tried this in the third or fourth grades where I had taught a few years earlier, there would have been no end to the line of students coming to my desk and asking impossible favors and saying, "Aw, shoot!" so that I would pop off a few rounds at them.  But in this class it didn't happen.  It was a bit unsettling to me how these students moved on without making a big thing of it.  I should have known some mischief was afoot among them.

  Three days later James approached my desk with a warm smile on his face.  I figured he wanted to be shot again.  Should I accommodate him?  

  "Mr. Sims, have you noticed how hard we have worked this week?"  It was Friday, and I had been known to award the class a half hour of extra time on the playground for a game of kickball or tag football at the end of a particularly productive week.

  "Yes, James, it's been a great week.  What are you thinking?"  The impossible request was forthcoming.

  "How about if we went to the gym for the rest of the afternoon for some free time?"

  I allowed him that the class probably deserved it, but something like that would have to be scheduled in advance. "Sorry, No."

  At this point his voice got a little louder as if he was making an announcement to the class.  "Aw, shoot!"

  Right then I had to make a quick assessment of the classroom climate.  Could the learning environment tolerate an assassination at this moment without bringing a total end to learning for the rest of the hour?  Okay, you're needing some attention today; I'll go for it.

  I pulled out my desk drawer and grabbed my gun... but there was another sound that made me hesitate a second.  All around the room there were desk tops opening and closing, and I surveyed the class to see no less than a dozen handguns aimed straight at me.  And above each gun was the face of a young perpetrator with an evil smirk.

  My assessment became more desperate as I quickly contemplated the ensuing chaos that would result from a massive fire fight at this moment.  James stood at the side of my desk with his arms crossed and his feet set slightly apart, the youngest mobster I had ever laid eyes on.  The place was deathly still as everyone waited for my next move.

  Slowly, carefully, I placed my pistol back in the drawer and closed it.  And amazingly, every gun in the room went quietly back inside the desk of every co-conspirator and they went back to their studies.

  And James cooly sauntered back to his desk as his partners in crime shot smug glances in his direction.  He was a hero.  His street cred had skyrocketed in an instant.  And he had my appreciation too.

  Nicely done, James.  It's not very often I get bested by a pre-adolescent crime boss.

  That was the day my respect grew for the abilities of a sixth-grader to plan and execute a brilliant scheme.  Now if he could apply that talent to his next group term project everything would be great.

  Afterward:  The kids did get to use their firearms during the next indoor rainy day recess.  I returned to the classroom after lunch to find the air full of blue smoke in a re-enactment of the battle at the OK Corral.  Or something.  As she left the room, the recess monitor looked at me with a helpless look on her face as if she assumed that all these guns were part of one of my crazy educational projects or something.  I wonder what the kids told her to persuade her to let them have a shoot-out.  Oh, well.
  It's a wonder nobody from the principal's office ever confronted me on the matter.  I did have a wonderfully accommodating staff of professionals that I worked with all those years, and I appreciate them to this day.
  As for James, he'll probably be president some day. If he can stay out of organized crime long enough.

Potential Life Lessons:  #1: What goes around comes around.  #2: Kids will generally give you what you give them.

*AARP: The American Association of Retired People