Where's My Presidential Pardon?

Yesterday Kennedy Corpus received a Presidential pardon for playing hooky. I played hooky once as a kid. I wasn't nearly as fortunate.

I was in second grade, so I suppose I should have turned to Carter. I was getting dressed for school and my mom wanted me to wear green velour bell bottoms because I was going ice skating with my Brownie troop after school. What I wanted to wear was my Brownie uniform, but, I knew for certain I wasn't going to wear green velour bell bottoms! We fought, quite vocally about it, with my mom struggling to pull the pants over my legs as I wiggled my way out of them, until finally my mom, single parent and late for work, gave up and said, "Fine. If you're not going to get dressed for school, then your just going to have to go to work with me. BUT, you will not go ice skating!"

"O.K!" I gave up easily.

Years later I revealed to her that it was a crush, on a serious little brown haired boy, who I'm sure was completely unaware of me, much less concerned with what kind of pants I was wearing, that kept me from getting dressed that morning. In addition, seven was a difficult year for me. My nights were spent pondering existentialism, and by day I was stuck with an ancient old witch of a teacher who was as equally unimpressed with me as I was with her. I was happy to go to work with my mom and spend the day filing address labels for her, but, then I had to go back.

The next morning I woke up, happy and refreshed, jumped into my clothes willingly, ate my breakfast without a fuss, got into the car when it was time to go, and was just about to get out of the car when I remembered I needed a note.

"Mom! I need a note! I can't go to school without a note!"

My mom handed me my note.

Dear Mrs. Cooper,

Please excuse Serena from school yesterday.
She decided to play Hooky.

Sincerely,
Serena's Mom

"HOOKY! You told her I played HOOKY?!"

I was seven years old. I don't know who she thought we were exactly, but Mrs. Cooper spent an inordinate amount of time warning our class of the plight that awaited young boys and girls who played Hooky. She never actually explained what would happen to us, in my mind it ranked closely with going to hell, but, she assured us that only very, very bad children played HOOKY!

There was no way I was going to hand her that note. She bore holes through me regularly, with her small beady eyes, simply for lining up at her desk to ask for help with my assignments. I wasn't going to go to class and willingly hand her a note that stated I'd played HOOKY!

Another tantrum ensued. The first bell rang. My mom tore up the note.
The second bell rang.

OH GREAT! Now I'd need two notes! One that explained why I was gone yesterday, and another to explain why I was late.

Exasperated, my mom pulled me, kicking and screaming, from the car. She dragged me, my arms wrapped tightly around her legs, across the parking lot. She hauled me down the hallway to my classroom where class was just getting started, and she struggled to get me into my class as I wedged my legs in the door frame while clinging desperately to her waist.

Mrs. Cooper click clacked across the room in her wooden heels, her hollowed cheeks exaggerated as she sucked on her teeth in disgust. Her distaste for me was palpable as she used her bony fingers to pry me from my mother. After much struggle, she managed to drag me to my seat. My mom feverishly made her escape. The only consolation she felt, as she walked down the hall that morning, was that at seven years old I would be properly shamed by my classmates and think twice about throwing a tantrum like that again.

What she hadn't anticipated, was my classmates looking at me in awe, imploring, "What were THEY doing to YOU?!"