The Coat Closet Dilemma

When I walked into my new second grade classroom following yet another military transfer of my family, Benjamin “Benny” Ostrello was the first person who greeted me. He was a chubby kid with a bright, happy smile, a good sense of humor and a welcoming spirit, probably all the direct result of the fact that even in second grade, the kids that were in and the kids that were out were already firmly established. And Benny was not cool enough to be in. So, he became my new best friend on that first day because, well, friends are hard to find when you are not “in” with the right crowd.

He was a source of constant hilarity to me. And he was he was a source of constant consternation to our teacher, Miss Nyman. In even just a few weeks, I could see that it took a lot to get to her because she was literally one of the kindest, most patient souls I had ever encountered in a school. She wore acetate dresses with big belts and bold patterns, and a cloud of perfume always arose from around her when you got close. Even if she wasn’t hugging you, you felt embraced by her presence. She felt like coming home.

Her nemesis, Benny, was always trying to be friends with everybody during instruction, and because I knew this and I valued his friendship, I tried to give him every opportunity to practice his social skills. One day, Miss Nyman snapped. She turned to Benny and, with a stern voice she rarely used, sent him to the infamous coat closet in the back of the room and told him he had to stand there because he was keeping the other kids from learning.

I was mortified. That coat closet was a dark, dark room in the back of the classroom, and if you were sent there, you carried the weight of shame and dishonor. You were the kid who was keeping other people from learning, and that was a huge crime those days in any public-school classroom.  It was literally only one step away from a swat with a paddle in the principal’s office.

The problem was, Benny didn’t initiate the distraction- I did.

After he marched himself into “the abyss,” I remember sitting at my desk working on the assignment and literally wrestling with whatever moral conscience a second grader might have.

Should I confess the distraction was my fault?

I hated the thought that a confession might send me to the coat closet and saddle me with the reputation as a disrupter of learning. But I hated more that my new friend Benny might be standing there in my place - Benny, who had not professed innocence, but simply took the heat because that’s what he always did.

There was only one thing to do.

I felt like I was marching up to a guillotine when I went to Miss Nyman‘s desk. The other kids were working quietly. She looked up at me, her perfume drifting up in the slight breeze the movement created, and asked me if I needed help. I think I started to cry, and then I whispered to her that I didn’t need any help. I just needed to let her know that Benji was not the one who was causing trouble. It was me who should be in the coat closet.

And then I waited in the silence for the punishment I knew would come.

Miss Nyman pushed her chair back loudly and stood up. She put her arm around me and faced me toward the class announcing she needed everybody to listen. She went on to explain that I had told her that I was the one who had caused trouble in class and not Benny, and I had confessed because I didn’t want him to get in trouble for something I had done.

I don’t know what I expected her to do after that, but I most certainly did not expect the next sentence. “Class, this is what honesty looks like, and I can’t tell you how much I value the fact that Vicky came forward and told the truth.”  She did not send me to the coat closet - she brought Benny out and welcomed him back to class.

I don’t remember the students’ reaction. But I think when Benny was let out of the coat closet and freed from his imprisonment, he was probably grateful. I don’t even remember how I felt in that moment.  But I will tell you this: I have never forgotten that day. I left her classroom knowing that no matter what the consequences might be, it was better in all circumstances to just tell the truth.

It is a lesson I have carried with me for 65 years,

and for that, I have Benny and Miss Nyman to thank.