As a middle school kid, I burned through several college ruled, spiral bound notebooks writing these dreadful sentences. It was my own fault, I suppose. My teachers insisted scribble was unacceptable which made this monotonous task of mid-evil torture even more effective as a means to cease and desist my wayward classroom behavior.

Even worse, was the public shame that oozed from my hand as I would write these same six prophetic words on the chalkboard while my “friends” snickered behind me. Because the school principles and P.E. coaches of my day carried big wooden paddles and were well trained in guerrilla warfare, this little exercise usually was the medicine that cured my mischievous ways.

I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits.

It’s a crying shame public humiliation and corporal punishment are no longer accepted by the Helicopter Moms and Dads of America as a means of reinforcing proper manners and respect for those in authority. I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits. Although pens and paddles may not be the swords of justice they once were, perhaps they should be.

Or, as an alternative, those of us who gave birth to these precious dumplings who lurk through the hallways of our institutions of learning, we could begin holding our own more accountable when they misstep, allow them to feel the consequences when they misjudge, encourage them to take responsibility for their behavior when they’re misdirected, and stop handing out trophies for doing little at all. I’m afraid if we don’t, our altricious offspring will live on the perpetual chalkboard of life writing the words, “I will not…” after every poor decision they make because they knew no better.