The Fire Can’t Get You If The Asthma Gets You First!
I’m the author of this story, and I have a story from middle school this time — sixth grade. My homeroom teacher was, quite frankly, ridiculous. He was our science teacher and also the baseball coach for my school, so he had particularly strict standards.
One day in the middle of winter — snow on the ground and everything — we had a fire drill during the sixth-grade lunch period. No big deal, just shuffle out to the field and wait for the drill to be over. Some kids were chatting because, well, we were a bunch of ten- and eleven-year-olds in the middle of a conversation, but it was hushed so we didn’t interrupt anything. The drill ended, and we went about our day.
The school was set up so that each class moved with their homeroom to the different classrooms, looping around and ending with whatever class their homeroom was. (My class schedule was social studies, math, English, gym, lunch, computer studies, and science.) When we got to class, [Homeroom Teacher] was glaring at us through most of the lesson. We thought it was because of his broken thumb (from a messed-up catch during baseball practice), and we didn’t think anything of it.
About five minutes before school ended, as part of the closing announcements, we heard:
Announcement: “[Homeroom Teacher]’s homeroom class, please report to the cafeteria at dismissal.”
As soon as it was time for everyone else to leave, [Homeroom Teacher] marched us to the cafeteria without letting us get our backpacks or coats from our lockers, had us sit down, and started lecturing.
Apparently, even though there were other classes talking as well, the fact that we were speaking during a fire drill was unacceptable, and he demanded absolute silence. We were to repeat the fire drill until we did it without so much as a whisper.
Remember I mentioned he had very strict standards? This “absolute silence” included bodily functions like coughing and sneezing. One student cleared their throat? Back into the cafeteria and then back outside for another drill. Someone sniffled? Back inside, back outside.
This wouldn’t be a problem normally, but to recap a few things, it was freezing cold out — the middle of winter with snow on the ground — and we didn’t have our coats.
And I’m asthmatic.
By the third lap to the cafeteria and back out, I was wheezing and coughing badly because of the temperature changes. My inhaler was in my backpack.
Well… [Homeroom Teacher] didn’t quite count on the fact that my dad could see us marching to the field and back because he was there to pick me up from school, and needless to say, Papa Wolf was in full effect. I swear, I thought he was going to pick [Homeroom Teacher] up and full-body throw him into a tree with how angry he was, screaming at him for not noticing a ten-year-old wheezing and being unable to breathe. I was allowed to go home, where I ended up having to miss the next day because, surprising no one, that little stunt got me sick. I never had a problem out of [Homeroom Teacher] again.
