The Declaration of Independence and the Dying Cockroach

Our sixth grade teacher Mr. G. had a reputation as a demanding and volatile man. Kids and parents talked about how he was a Vietnam veteran, and somehow that was supposed to explain his volatility. This was the early 1980s in Birch Run, Michigan, so the wounds of Vietnam were far from healed, and attitudes weren’t always very enlightened.

Mr. G. supposedly made misbehaving students do the “dying cockroach.” Than meant the student had to lie on their back with their legs and arms out until Mr. G. decided they’d had enough. I never saw him sentence anyone to that, but the middle school rumor mill was very certain it happened often.

One day Mr. G. decided our class should sit quietly and read the Declaration of Independence. We all obliged, and like every other kid, when I finished reading the words I sat there waiting for the next thing. Mr. G. walked around the classroom as we read, and when he noticed I was finished, he stopped at my desk.

“All finished?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Are you sure you’re finished?” he asked.

A little unsure where this was going, I answered that I was.

Then he pointed to the word “usurpations,” and asked me what it means. I said I didn’t know.

“Then you’re not done reading,” he said. “There’s dictionaries over there, and I’m here too. If you don’t know a word, look it up or ask someone what it means. Then you’re finished reading.”

Later in the semester, Mr. G. taught me another lesson along the same lines. He took all of the papers and garbage out of the class can. Then he took all of my papers and notebook for his class and put them at the bottom of the can. Then he replaced all of the other papers, rendering my stuff completely buried.

“Get your stuff out of there without touching any of the other papers,” he said.

I spent the next few minutes trying to find an angle to rescue my stuff, flattening my hand and trying to dig in without touching the other papers. I assume the other kids were laughing, but I didn’t notice because I was so intent on figuring out how to get my things out without touching the other stuff, which of course was impossible.

“Ask someone else to do it for you,” Mr. G. finally said.

I don’t remember who I asked, but soon I had my papers and notebook back, and returned to my seat.

I tell these stories to my students, in part because they are colorful, but also because I think they were intended to teach lessons about pride, the absence of shame in asking for help and so on…

I told the trash can story to a friend once, and he said I should have dumped out the trash can and retrieved my things that way. I’m glad I didn’t do that, because I’m sure I would have been given a dying cockroach, and I hear those things sucked.