Imitation: The Lowest Form of Flattery

Eyes dripping hot salty tears all across my face, blurring my vision so much that I couldn’t even see my mother, I was so completely ashamed. Even if I could get a good glance of her I didn’t want to. I suspected she was ashamed, too.

Let me back up to earlier that day. It was seventh grade humanities class. All the kids were in the classroom with no sight of our teacher. He was about five minutes late. I never would have thought five minutes could make such a big difference. Kids were talking and shuffling anxiously, waiting for a man many of them dreaded seeing. Randomly, I heard one classmate say something mocking about the teacher. So, being the comedic genius that I was, I went a step further – or maybe a few steps further. I walked up to the front of the class, sat down in the black leather swivel chair, reserved for the teacher of course, and imitated Mr. Friedman. 

Mr. Friedman, in my opinion, was the scariest and most menacing teacher in the entire school. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. But Mr. Friedman had a very particular way of speaking and acting. You could tell he was an educated man, bordering on the pretentious side. Personally, I’d say I nailed the imitation but that’s not the point. About thirty seconds into my “performance,” Mr. Friedman walked straight into the classroom with a clear view of my “stage.” The room went dead silent. Everyone fumbled into their seats except me. I couldn’t. I was too far away, but, moreso, I was caught dead in the act. Now, of course, he could’ve played it off like a cool teacher or just told me to go to my seat. But Mr. Friedman, in front of the entire class, assigned me a detention, as well as instructing me to tell my parents personally before receiving an email from him. 

My hatred was, unsurprisingly, unimaginably, at an all time high.

That was the first detention I’d ever got. I was completely fine with attending the detention, but it was the fact that I had to tell my parents about it first that really made it horrible. The thought of admitting my misbehavior to my parents made me sick throughout the entire rest of the day. Of course, I was no star-studded student or angel of a child, but the word “detention,” especially to a 12 year old, truly did make me queasy. 

When I got home, I waited for the very last moment to tell my mother. She was in bed about to go to sleep, and I walked in with my head held low. I opened with some small talk too insignificant to remember. Maybe something like “great weather today.” Then, with a literal lump in my throat and pain in my stomach, I forced the words out of my mouth. She looked at me with a confused face. So I proceeded to tell my story. It was horrible. 

So, eyes dripping hot salty tears all across my face, blurring my vision so much that I couldn’t even see her face, I’d never had to tell my parents anything like this before. And the craziest thing to my naive 7th-grade brain was that they weren’t even that mad in the end. But I still felt guilty. Not for committing the crime – that was a work of art – but because I felt as though I had failed my parents. Everything they taught me, all the lessons on what not to do, all so I could go out and get a detention. To this day, my father still tells the story as a hilarious memory. But it isn’t to me. All it does is remind me of my failure to him.

But years later I looked back to that day where I failed my parents, and had a revelation. 

I didn’t fail anyone. Failure in general is a part of life. There isn’t a child on this earth who hasn’t misbehaved a few times. It is the biggest part of growing up, in my opinion. Of course, most times, you should follow the rules. But children must be mischievous. It’s what shapes their childhood and creates memories. I’m pretty sure in ten years I won’t remember the first thing I learned in seventh grade humanities. But I will remember the memories I made and the people I made them with.