Decades before the invention

of the cell phone, the electronic remote control or the "staged,

real-life drama," I was a naive sixth grader. Sixth grade was still

part of elementary school back then.

To be in a class of sixth graders

in the year 1969 at Macedonia Elementary School meant that you would witness

a classmate being spanked as often as you watched "Gilligan's Island."

I was to endure many experiences in the sixth grade. I was to learn, first-handed,

the cruel pain of a judicial system gone horribly wrong. But, more about

that later.

The sixth grade was a milestone

year for me. I danced my first dance with a girl that year to the swinging

vibes of Blood Sweat and Tears' "Spinning Wheel." It would be

the first of many years that I lost the annual school spelling bee to

Claudia Ripley believe it or not.

Also, the last school day before

our Christmas vacation we lost our beloved teacher to a car accident that

left her drowning beneath the ice at Attison Bridge, only to find out

15 minutes later that she was simply late for school and it was all just

a rumor gone wild. Sixth graders are like that. Their imaginations are

much more ambitious than their grooming skills.

Growing up in rural South Carolina

during the third quarter of the 20th century would seem to be a Harper

Lee, "To Kill a Mockingbird" kind of time. It wasn't. Though

we had our share of Boo Radleys, there was no Atticus Finches when I had

my run-in with the "law." I never spent a night in the Maycomb

jail, but I still bear the pain of a man unjustly convicted of a crime

he didn't commit. This is my story.

I was in the Safety Patrol

in the sixth grade, an office that an ambitious child such as myself would

set as the holy grail of prepubescence. I literally dreamed of that white

canvas patrol belt, its diagonal strap crossing my chest, exuding the

power, authority and bravery of the best of the best sixth graders. I

got my belt too. And I was proud.

My pride would be short-lived,

though, as I became the shame of my family and the sixth grade Safety

Patrol. Long before senators and mayors and even presidents would hang

their heads in shame for dishonoring their "office," I was laying

the foundation.

Professional wrestling was

popular during my kid days and there was a maneuver or "hold"

called the "Sleeper." One wrestler would get behind another

and wrap his arms around the head of his opponent in a way that would

put him to sleep. We had heard tell of two kids upstate trying this and

one died. Thus the "move" was banned among all our students.

Yes, even schools in the '60s were known to overact, swinging the pendulum

beyond rationality, as if wrestler Wahoo McDaniel was the Satan of our

times.

The rest of my story is simple.

In a moment of horseplay, I was performing a mock sleeper hold and someone

reported it to a teacher. Faster than you could protest the Vietnam War,

I was sent to the office. My crime was much more serious an offense than

a good paddling could remedy. Instead I would have to endure a tribunal

council at the hands of my Safety Patrol.

A faux courtroom was set up

and I faced a jury of my peers. With little fanfare and without a defense

attorney, I was quickly convicted of my childhood crime and my patrol

belt ripped from my body in a way that would make Benedict Arnold blush.

If it was any consolation,

I was put on probation and not thrown off the squad. Yet, I was still

relieved of my considerable bus patrol duties.

I learned early that fear and

the law make for cruel, overreacting partners. Even looking back now,

I accept my school's desire to keep others from making the awful mistake

of killing during play-wrestling or, at least, their desire to just stay

out of the papers for doing it.

It was still one of the best

years of my life. And I guess they made the papers after all.

[Visit Billy Murphy on the

Internet at https://ebilly.net.]