The Five Times I Was Suspended in Middle School

(All names are altered out of consideration.)

Dodson Middle School, part of the Los Angeles Unified School District

1.     The Protractor Incident

My first suspension was in Mr. DeSousa’s design class.  Sitting behind me, Jessica Herrera asked to borrow my protractor.  I said, “Sure,” and I tossed my protractor at her (a flimsy, cardboard thing).  I accidentally hit her cheek.  I apologized, but she started crying.  I felt terrible. Mr. DeSousa sent us both to the dean. An hour later, she was still crying. Her parents took her home, and I was suspended for three days.

2.     The Cheating Scandal

Lacey Predergast was my first girlfriend in 6th grade. Our relationship lasted two weeks, until I broke up with her by telling one of her friends. As time went on, Lacey became very popular. I did not, but Lacey and I stayed friends. In 7th grade, Lacey stole a teacher’s copy of the week’s English vocabulary test. Through Lacey’s popularity, she distributed the answers to nearly every 7th grader. Later that day (before I had the opportunity to cheat), the teachers learned about the scandal and brought every 7th grader into the auditorium.  Lacey was publicly shamed, and the teachers asked who else cheated or had the intention to cheat.  They promised nothing would happen if we raised our hands.  A good boy with a good conscience, I raised my hand.  Those of us who raised our hands were immediately suspended.  The teachers betrayed us. I knew then they were wrong to do that.

3.     The Printer Incident

In Mrs. Schneider’s science class, my friend James and I finished our work early, and we asked to use the computers in back.  Mrs. Schneider said “Sure.”  Games (and anything fun) were banned on school computers, so James and I played with Microsoft Word.  We discovered that we could access different printers in other classrooms via the school’s ethernet.  We wrote a message to our history teacher, Mrs. Dallman, and we printed it on Mrs. Dallman’s classroom printer (using Mrs. Schneider’s computer).  The message said: “Hello, Mrs. Dallman,” and it was surrounded by a bunch of Wingdings.  We didn’t think anything of it.  My friend in that class told me what happened: Mrs. Dallman was in the middle of a lecture when her printer turned on.  She walked across the room — in silence — and pulled the paper from her suddenly sentient printer.  When she read the message addressed to her, she was afraid.  She asked the school’s IT department to track down the “hackers” who did this.  James and I were suspended.

4.     Courtesy Day

Every student at Dodson had to take a P.E. class.  Inevitably, a student would disrupt class, and they would be punished.  Dodson was different.  Rather than punish the misbehaving student, they would punish the entire P.E. class.  And not only would they punish the entire P.E. class for that period, but they would punish every P.E. class the entire day.  It was known as a “Courtesy Day,” and the intention was to use public shaming as a deterrent.  During this courtesy day, someone misbehaved in 3rd period P.E., and I was punished in 6th period P.E.  Our punishments were to hold our arms outstretched as long as possible, run laps, and run laps with our arms outstretched.  While we were running, the P.E. teachers ran alongside us and passed out fliers to encourage us to “find our our ideal heart rates.”  They were sadists. They posted these fliers outside their office.  After an hour of punishment (for a crime I didn’t commit), I was furious.  I ripped off all the fliers from the P.E. office, wiped them in my sweat, and threw them inside the office, glaring at the P.E. teachers as I did it.  I was suspended for two days.

5.     The Rock Incident

Sitting on the hot, black asphalt in P.E., Mrs. Opal was taking attendance.  I noticed I was sitting on a rock.  I flicked the rock away.  It hit Mrs. Opal on the cheek.  She said, “Ohh! … Was that a rock?”  She decided it was.  I was in disbelief.  Was it my rock?  I was sitting far away, and I flicked my rock inaccurately.  It couldn’t have been.  It’s true, a part of me did want to hit Mrs. Opal.  I despised her (as I despised most of my P.E. teachers), but I couldn’t believe I hit her from so far.  When Mrs. Opal threatened a “Courtesy Day,” I confessed.  I apologized and said it was an accident (omitting the part of me that did want to hit her).  I was suspended for three days.

Memories

I remember helping D.J. plant marijuana seeds on the 8th grade lawn. I remember being corrected online when I misspelled my favorite band as “Limp Biscuit.” I remember wearing black every day. I remember closing the windows and doors (and turning on the fan) before torturing my Geometry teacher with fart spray. I remember the “kissing game” in 6th grade Drama, when the girl I had a crush on ran away when it was my turn to kiss her. I remember staring at clocks, watching the second hand jiggle after every tick. I remember feeling like a hero when I stole Mr. Schrader’s metal pole, which he banged on tables to scare us. I remember the two girls who invited me into bathrooms, but I was too shy and said “no.” I remember laughing when my friends and I got back at the metal-heads who harassed us (by putting fart bombs in a plastic bag filled with air, knowing they couldn’t resist stomping on it). I remember Michael laying on his desk in class, eyes wide, pretending he was dead, until I’d notice and laugh. I remember the “nothing to lose vibe” of the girl who strolled across the 8th grade lawn and told me she wanted to kiss me. Her lack of fear scared me, and I said “no.” Months later, she jumped off a cliff and survived. More than anything, I remember the feeling of depression. I didn’t have the emotional tools to understand it, and I wouldn’t for years.

A Bit of Family History…

This photo was taken in post-World War 2 Germany. On the left is my Grandpa Vladimir Pavlov. He died before I was born, so I never met him. Twenty years ago, my grandma remarried his close friend — Wes Stanchev (on the right) — and he became “Grandpa Wes.”

Grandpa Wes died in 2020 of a heart attack.

Vladimir Pavlov lived an interesting life. Born in Saint Petersburg, he was orphaned during the Russian Revolution. His father, a Captain, was killed in WW1, and his mother died of the Great Influenza. He studied chemistry at the University of Leningrad, until he was conscripted into two wars: the Russo-Finnish War and the WW2 Eastern Front. He survived WW2 as a POW — an experience which killed 57.5% of all Soviet POWs in German captivity. After the Americans liberated his POW camp (and after he lost teeth due to starvation), he worked at an American military garage in Germany, where he met “Grandpa Wes.” Because he had no family and no home (the Siege of Leningrad was the most destructive siege in human history), he decided to immigrate to America. He moved to LA, where he met my grandma, dancing at the “Polka Palace.” (Their first date was at a museum.) He was a musician, he spoke seven languages, and he was a relative of the Nobel Prize winner Ivan Pavlov (of “Pavlov’s Dogs”). I never met him, but I bet we would’ve had really interesting conversations. (“What was it like being in Saint Petersburg during the Russian Revolution?” “Did you ever see Rasputin wandering around?” etc.)

Grandpa Wes was born in Bulgaria. He survived WW2 as a forced laborer in Nazi Germany. Days before the war’s end, he escaped with a close friend, only to be strafed by an American fighter pilot thinking they were Germans. His friend was killed. He witnessed the meeting of the American and Soviet troops on the River Elbe. After meeting Grandpa Pavlov at the military garage, he maneuvered his way to America, where he was immediately drafted into the Korean War. He said my Grandpa Pavlov was the only person who ever wrote to him when he was on the front lines with the 11th Airborne. He expressed gratitude for this for the rest of his life.

After the war, he returned to Bulgaria to see his family, when his mother was killed in a bus accident. He never went back. His early life was full of tragedies, and he’d bitterly complain that “people live too long.” Still, he found contentment in my family. He used to pick me up from school, and we got to know each other. We ate at the Olive Garden in Torrance a few times a year for over 20 years. We’d order the same thing — Chicken Scampi, veggies on the side — and we’d have long conversations about history. (“What was it like being in Germany after the Battle of Stalingrad?” “Did the Germans know what it meant?” etc.) I miss that.

Although I never met Grandpa Pavlov, I knew he was intelligent, because Grandpa Wes was. I knew he was loyal, because Grandpa Wes was. And I knew he was ethical, because Grandpa Wes was. I told Grandpa Wes this before he died. He was grateful. He said I was the son he never had. And to me, he was the grandpa I never met.

This is my Grandpa Pavlov’s Leica that I recently inherited. The serial number is 177741, which means it was made in 1935, and it’s a Leica I “Standard” Model. My grandpa probably bought it used after he immigrated. He was poor, so that’s why he bought the “stripped down” version. I took it to a camera shop recently, and the owner gave me a $600 estimate to repair it. He called himself “the Ferarri of Leica repairmen.” (My gut says I’ll find a better deal elsewhere — ideally from “the Prius of Leica repairmen.”)

When I start posting grainy film photos, I’ll be shooting them with this.