David Jacobs (7:03)
most importantly, I listened to authority and I followed the rules. But then There was also 90 mile an hour David. Now, as you might expect, he had an uncontrollable temper, used expletives gratuitously. And if you saw this situation developing, it was an immediate warning of like an emergency evacuation kind of thing. Anyone within like a 10 mile radius probably wanted to get out of the area. In kindergarten, we had this assignment, City and country. We had to turn our classroom into a modern us small town. So we had the pancake house and the police station and the firehouse and the post office. And Scott and I had been given the library. The library was up in the loft. It was this beacon. It was like a city on a hill looking over the rest of the classroom. It was really the cushiest spot. So we put up this fake computer that didn't work. We put up all these old books. And I did a Google image search of librarians. So I dressed up in a gray sweater vest and a blue button down denim shirt because that's what librarians looked like on Google. So to me, that was just what it was. And everything was going great. We put a lot of effort into it. And I'm looking up into the library and I see Scott's talking. Now, I don't know that much about libraries aside from, you know, the uniform that I just learned about. But what I did know is that you're supposed to be quiet in a library. That's how you glean these major realizations from these books, is by, you know, quiet, steady focus. So I approached Scott, I said, scott, you know, listen, this is the library, not the pancake house, okay? Can we try to keep it down over here? And Scott looks at me confused and says, well, you know, it's our library. We can make whatever rules we want. Now, this was a very interesting point, but I was not in a place for rational debate. So I saw the mechanical pencil to my right, picked it up in my fist and said, scott, shut up or I'll shove this pencil down your throat. So Scott looked at me. Scott was a smaller kid than I was, and he looked at me dead in the eye. And he thought about it for a few seconds. And then he just got up and walked away. And to this day, I respect the hell out of him for having the balls to just walk away from that. But at the same time, he didn't confront me about it. He didn't make me consider how problematic a thing that was. And not only that, he rewarded me for it. I won. I got my quiet library in second grade. I hadn't finished this math sheet that I was supposed to finish in class. The Yankees had recently won the World Series, and hell if I was going to focus in math class. And so I'm sitting there working during recess and these two girls walk in and they had finished all the books that they had been assigned at this point. So they were coming in to find some more books to read. And I say that only so you have a sense of the elitist attitude that they entered the room with. And from the second they saw me sitting at the table working on this math sheet, I could see their eyes just light up. They couldn't contain themselves. The laughter just. It popped out. And I could feel my face getting red. I was so embarrassed. It was so clear how pathetic they thought I was. And I was about to explode at them when I thought, well, Dr. Schwartz once told me, instead of lashing out at people, instead you should write it down, crumple it up, throw it away, and that way you get the release without the repercussions. Now, even at this second grade age, I knew that this was the biggest bullshit I'd ever heard. This was a guy who my parents had sent me off to see. They had seen a 90 mile an hour David manifest himself enough times that they thought professional help was in order. So I hated this man. But I thought, if I'm spending all this time, I may as well give him a shot. So I do. So I take a piece of paper and a light blue marker and I go underneath the table where I was working and I write fucking bitch. It seemed doubly potent at the time. So I got it down. And then I'm down there, I crumple it up, I come out from the table, I go over to the trash can in the corner of the classroom, and I dig out the empty Cheez its box and the New York Times that had been used for paper mache. And I dug really deep down and then I placed the fucking bitch down there and I left the garbage. And I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was like, oh my God. Maybe this Dr. Schwartz is a pretty respectable character. Maybe he knows what he's talking about. But the whole time that episode was going on, the girls were still in the classroom. So they were understandably shocked and horrified. They had just watched me leave my work to go under the table where I wrote a mysterious thing down, crumpled it up, left the space under the table, proudly walked to the trash can, removed items from the trash can, placed it deep down in there, and then covered my tracks. So they did some investigative reporting and they found the fucking bitch. And it was too good a scoop. They had to take this to my teacher. And Sari knew 30 mile an hour David because she had taught my older brother and she knew my family. I had this great understanding of a relationship with her. At the same time, she'd just been handed probably pretty damning evidence in the form of the fucking bitch. So I was off to go see Principal George. Now, for the sake of this story, the only really important things to know about Principal George is that he had this gorgeous Burt Reynolds mustache that I still to this day am very jealous of. And he also had this just liberal ideology to match this ethical culture type school. So he was pretty open minded. When I walked in there and I said, I laid it all out on the table for him. I said, listen, George, I've been having some trouble controlling my anger. And this fellow Dr. Schwartz said, Just write it down. Release without the repercussions. You know what I just said? He thought about it for a second and he reached out to Dr. Schwartzman, who I have to assume said something along the lines of, yeah, that was my terrible idea. My apologies, my bad, my bad. Because George just let me go. And then fourth grade came around, and right before the school year began, when I was awaiting this letter showing me, you know, who was going to be in my class, what all the different teachers I would have would be, I got this letter from school telling me that I had this new buddy. We were going to have a new kid in fourth grade, and his name was Sam, and I was going to be his familiar face for the first day. Now, Sam is a white Jewish kid from Westchester, New York. Not too tall, but not too short, not fat, but, you know, a little cushion for the pushing. Liked sports, but, like, not too much. Was smart, but, like, not too smart. Very similar to the way I would have described myself at that age. I noticed that immediately when I met him. It was a little jarring and, you know, I was still so uncomfortable. I was trying to figure out my own place in the grade. I wasn't trying to pave the way for Some kid who was exactly like me. What if they choose him? You never know. So I decided I was going to be welcoming, but not too welcoming. I'd show him where the bathroom was, but I wouldn't tell him the cool lunchroom table. The good thing that happened before fourth grade was that I had finally convinced my mom that Allen Iverson was a reputable enough man that I should be able to wear his basketball shoes. And I don't know if you've ever seen the Allen Iverson answer 5s, but they are the coolest shoes, probably to this day, I've ever owned. And I walked into that classroom, and I was walking in on a cloud. I don't know if you know what it feels like to be wearing the coolest shoes in the room, but I do, because I did that day. And I was walking around on that cloud for weeks, until one day I saw Sam enter the room, and he was walking in on a cloud. And I thought, you know, I recognized that feeling. And I looked down at his shoes, and my man was wearing my Iverson answer 5s. Now, granted, they were a very popular shoe. He was also a new kid, so maybe he wasn't familiar with the rules of swagger jacking. I decided I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. A few weeks later, we're choosing what book we want to write our book report on. And I had just read Christopher Paul Curtis, Bud Not Buddy. It's a heartwarming and trying tale of a boy's search for his father. And I loved it. I really connected with this book. And so I made a point of going to my teacher very early and saying, I will be writing on Bud, not Buddy. Thank you so much. I can't wait. And the whole class kind of took note of that. And so everybody chooses their book. And it's, you know, somebody chooses, not Bud, not Buddy. And someone else chooses not Bud, not Buddy. And another person, not Bud, not Buddy, so on and so forth until we get to the end of the list. And one person just has to choose their book for their book report. And it's Sam, and he chooses Butt, not Buddy. Now, there was a finite list of books. It's not like he was just pulling from the sky and that was all he could grab. So I figured I gotta give him the benefit of the doubt. Even though no one else had picked Butt Nut Buddy, everybody else had kind of respected that I was going to do this incredible analysis and that it wasn't worth touching, but he felt ballsy enough to come in on my territory. But again, he was a new kid. I was supposed to be looking out for him. I let it slide. A few weeks after that, though, we were catching one of the last beautiful days of fall. We were out on the baseball diamond and the top of the inning had just ended and Sam and I were on the same team. And it's important to remind you here that we are both lefty. If you've never played baseball or haven't played a lot of baseball, you don't know that there are only really two. There only needs to be two lefties on a team. You got like, a lefty's great as a pitcher and as a first baseman, but other than that, every other position is played better by righty. And so Sam is going out onto the field and he sees this lefty glove laying there on the floor. And he thinks, oh, I'm sure this doesn't belong to anyone else. This will be harmless. I'll pick this one up and I'll just. He goes out into the field. But I see this happen and I'm thinking, bud, not buddy. I'm thinking my Iverson answer fives I and all of our similarities. And I just yell at him. I say, sam, stop stealing my stuff. I'll fucking kill you. And so Sam looks back at me, smiling at first, hoping that I'm just kidding, that I won't actually kill him over this basement glove. But after looking into my eyes for only a second, he knew that there was not. I wasn't kidding even in the slightest. My face was getting to its normal tomato red and I was all business. And he sheepishly put his head down and walked over to me and gave me the glove. Our team ended up winning the game. And no one talked about this incident. No one brought it up with me. Nobody was, like, talking about it amongst themselves. There's no crazy whispers in the corner. It just. It blew over. Until the next morning. It's 8:30 and I'm looking around the classroom and Sam isn't there. And then it's. It's 8:35 and Sam still isn't there. And 8:40 comes by. And finally 8:45 rolls around and I look outside the classroom and Sam's dad's there. And just behind him, barely peeking out from behind him, is Sam, too afraid to come into this classroom, this place that should be nothing but a safe learning environment for him. So his dad presses onward and goes in and finds my teacher and says, you know, my son was afraid to come to school today. Do you know why that is. And Nicole is beside herself. She has no idea. She says, I'm so sorry. Please tell me, what can I do? What happened? Who did this? And he just looked at her and said, one of your students threatened to fucking kill my son. And I'm watching all of this happen, and I'm sinking further and deeper into my chair because I know what's coming. Ever since I looked into the hallway and saw Sam hiding behind his dad, I started to try to think of some sort of excuse or rationale for my actions, and I was coming up completely empty. I had nothing. After a few more seconds of sinking, Nicole rescued me and told me that I would be off to go visit my old friend Principal George. Now we got down to George's office, and this time he had another idea in mind. He didn't want just my apology. He had this dream of an Oslo Accords moment, of Yasser and Yitzhak coming together on the front lawn and smiling and shaking hands and breezing past years of intractable problems with just this foolhardy smile, mustache, and handshake. And I was all too willing to give it to him. I jumped up and said, sam, I'm so sorry. This will never happen again, and extended my hand out. And Sam, he was too new. He didn't want to get a reputation for being a stick in the mud or some sort of snitch. And so he apprehensively reached out his hand and shook mine back. And we left the room. And I eluded punishment. If you're concerned, Sam today is a Division 1 lacrosse goalie. So I imagine the incidents that occurred in fourth grade would go down somewhat differently if it were to happen again. Not that I'm not a force to be reckoned with, but I'm about as physically intimidating as like an Easy Bake Oven. You could burn yourself maybe a little bit, but that would be the end of the encounter. You would just close it up and walk away. But even though I escaped formal punishment, I'll really never be able to erase the image of Sam cowering behind his father, afraid to come into a classroom where I myself had felt attacked and alienated because of words that I had screamed at him in moment of fury. It was the first time in my life where I was truly embarrassed to be in my own skin. And I could think of no words to defend my actions. That was my mistake. Thank you.
