Rebel Without a Fork

It was a drawerful of silverware that did me in.

That was Eighth Grade, and my delinquency was just a few years from its peak.

Despite sharing the same first name, I was no James Dean. My rebellions had a cause. Even at age twelve, my reactions to injustice were volatile—or at least my perceptions of injustice. The egocentrism of youth will, on occasion, wrongly identify a decision as being fixed, or ignorantly declare an appropriate measure as being unfair.

Interestingly enough, many adults who never grow out of this appear to enter politics.

Anyway, one afternoon, after returning from an Immaculate Conception Eighth Grade field trip at the Eau Claire County Courthouse, I stepped through the front door of my house to find both my parents facing me at the kitchen table, their glares upon me like the Spanish Inquisition. Between them on the table, an array of over thirty sets of spoons and forks, along with two empty bottles of Jack Daniels, all confiscated from my bedroom dresser drawers.

My father’s concrete glare surveyed the evidence. “Hey, fella. You wanna explain all this?”

The weight of absolute doom threatened to crush me. Although having become a consummate liar by this time, even I knew there was no way to invent a story that could get me out of this predicament. I opened my mouth and began my confession.

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It all started about a month prior.

No. Wait. Back up. In truth, it really started in sixth grade, the beginning of what my Catholic schooling deemed to be junior high. 

Before then, I was a shy, geeky, overweight kid with braces. Over that summer, when my orthodontics were to be removed after two years of lip-shredding, diet-restricting torture, I decided I was going to completely reinvent myself in time for the new school year. I went on an extreme diet, started lifting weights, and by the start of junior high, I had lost thirty pounds. I found my feet, smiled with straight teeth, and discovered a weak but burgeoning self-respect.

For whatever reason, the loss of both body mass and mouth metal released from inside me a smart-ass, rebellious class clown. I was constantly locking horns with what I perceived as crazy, oppressive nuns trying to beat us down into submission. As a result, I grabbed the attention of Jason Rykal, one of the most popular guys in school who, as I walked into dreaded gym class one day, called out, “Peters! Sit by me. You’re TOO funny!” (This bizarre occurrence of popular, charismatic guys becoming my best friend would oddly continue throughout my life.)

The build-up of confidence, in conjunction with raging pubescent hormones, turned me into a defiant, self-righteous hellion. Just as Mildred asked Johnny in the 1953 movie, The Wild One—“What are you rebelling against?”—I had the same answer as his:

“Whadda you got?”

By Eighth Grade, much of our class, led by myself and a core group of students, were doing everything we could to disrupt order and promote anarchy. When I later spoke of our Eighth-Grade escapades to my high school best friend Scott Peelman, he gaped at me.

“It was you! Your class was the reason my parents couldn’t transfer me from Delong to I.C.! They said the current Eighth Grade class was too disruptive and they weren’t accepting any new students.”

A dubious honor, but admittedly worn with shameful pride.

Midway into Eighth Grade at I.C., the quality of hot lunch dropped significantly. Both portions and preparation worsened. I remember being served corn that still had frozen kernels. At the same time, the school raised the cost. Student complaints were ignored, so I started a boycott of hot lunch. I was able to get a majority of hot lunch Eighth Graders to take part, and for several days, we shook the pillars of Immaculate Conception School. Sister Dorothy, the principal of I.C., actually addressed my class to insist that the boycott stop because of how it was hurting the school. I had never felt so proud to be the impetus of such an impactful movement.

Sadly, my fellow students quickly soured to their bag lunches and, in no time, the boycott eroded until it was just me and the usual cold lunch crew of fellow geeks I had been friends with before the start of junior high.

I felt utterly betrayed.

So, I eventually returned to hot lunch, but decided to take things into my own hands. There was only one obvious, sensible, effective course of action to take.

I started to steal silverware.

In my twelve-year-old logic, this was the most appropriate and necessary way to further the cause.

Every day at school lunch, instead of returning my silverware to the bus bins with my dirty tray, I’d slip them into my inside coat pocket. I was very vocal to my student body about my disappointment with the failed boycott and shared my brilliant alternative plan. In a show of support, some would offer me their utensils as well, which I gladly slipped into my jacket’s pocket.

In my bedroom, the cheap, stamped-metal silverware found its new home in a place of distinction—my bottom middle dresser drawer. A precedent had already been set of this drawer being a place of reverence. Two empty 750-liter bottles of Jack Daniels had earned their place of honor in remembrance of my previous wild and woolly summer (to be written about at another time).

Sure, I took steps to conceal these rites of passage, but those efforts were ridiculously rudimentary. My father and mother simply did not go through my drawers. Why would they? I was an absolute “angel” (quotes added for sarcastic emphasis) and they were reasonable and trusting parents.

So, after so many weeks enacting my revised rebellion against hot lunch, fast forward to our class retreat at the Eau Claire County Courthouse where we were to learn about our local judicial system. When we arrived, they collected our coats and led us to the courtroom where we witnessed the initial appearances of those facing fines or charges. The most memorable was a man who, if I remember correctly, had either broken or was being assigned a restraining order. While he sat across the aisle from our class awaiting the judge, he ogled several of our junior high girls while spreading his legs and drawing attention to the large bulge under his tight, stone-washed jeans.

Unbeknownst to me, back when we were first being led into the courtroom, while a county employee hung up our coats, a fork fell out of a jacket. The staff member held up the tined utensil and asked the few students who lagged behind, “Whose is this?”

A fellow classmate blurted out, “That’s Jimmy Peters’!”

The county employee informed our chaperone Sister Sylvia, who informed the principal, who called my parents, and a full investigation of my bedroom ensued, leading to the array of contraband spread out on the kitchen table waiting for the guilty party to arrive.

In all honesty, I don’t remember what exactly what I said to my parents, nor do I recall the details of my punishment. I know it was the most severe I had received up to that point and remember being grounded for a very long time. I do wonder, though, if my parents, in any small way, appreciated the fact that my fight had been, in no small part, for them. After all, it was their money paying for the hot lunches.

Looking back, it is interesting to see how what can start as a noble and peaceful protest can escalate into criminal actions when those in charge ignore the legitimacy of grievances. Admittedly, there were far better ways my twelve-year-old self could have advanced my cause. Instead, my response was emotional and driven by frustration and anger. All too human. Yet, I still feel the cause was just, even now as an adult.

As time went on, I continued to be more disruptive and rebellious to any authority I perceived as oppressive, and ever more emotional and ineffective in how I carried it out. The powers-that-be typically responded in an unemotional, indoctrinated way to squelch my voice and my spirit. In the end, it was adulthood, responsibility, and the corporate world that seemed to have finally succeeded in mostly doing that.

As much as my advanced middle-age self feels some regret for the disrespect I showed my elders, I also believe it resulted in me developing an amount of healthy dissent that has since served me well when needing to take a stand on a moral high ground.

Today, more than ever, I must confess that I do have an affection for that rebel of my youth. Despite his misguided actions and a need for attitude adjustment, I admire that part of him that would fight to the bitter end for what he thought was right and fair. My older, mellowed self longs for a bit of that spirit, which now could be tempered by the wisdom of age and experience. I think, perhaps, that righteous defiance is needed more than ever from all of us right now.