Disarming

In 1966 I was a newly minted teacher at a high school in a small Oregon logging town, my first full-time, adult job.  I was 22.

One morning in early October, a plainclothes sheriff’s deputy came to my classroom just as the school day began, to inform me that one of my third-period students, Eddie Lundgren (not his real name), had brought a pistol to school. The deputy told me that he and another deputy were following Eddie, waiting for the right moment to pounce on him.  However, they had already blown their cover; Eddie was alerted and was threatening to shoot every time they got close. 

They planned to trail him through the halls, try to get him alone, and if they hadn’t managed to disarm him by then, would be standing just outside my door during third period, when Eddie would be in my class. The deputy told me to scream if Eddie actually aimed the gun at someone and looked like he was going to pull the trigger.  They would come in with guns drawn.  The deputy pulled aside his jacket to show me the gun in his shoulder holster.

Eddie was a bully and a braggart, not doing well in any of his classes.  One of the long-time teachers told me that this had been Eddie’s pattern all through grade school as well.  Eddie was a big kid for fourteen, large-framed and muscular.  He was disrespectful and disruptive, a troublemaker in my class from the very first day.

When Eddie swaggered into my classroom at the beginning of third period, there was the gun in his hand, a Luger pistol. The other students filed in and took their seats.  Some looked uneasy; most looked excited.

When Eddie was seated, I walked over to him and said, “Wow, a Luger.  Is that a World War II model?  Can I have a look?” I held out my hand.

Eddie handed me the pistol—and then realized his mistake and froze.  

I understood at once that what I was holding was a very good plastic replica. I could tell from Eddie’s expression that he thought he was about to be humiliated.  I must admit, the big kid got to me.  Also, now I knew that he wouldn’t be shooting anyone. 

I handed the fake pistol back to him and said, “Nice.” After I had the students settled with a short reading assignment, I slipped out into the hall and briefed the two deputies.  

When third period was over, they hustled Eddie out the back door and had a talk with him.  The deputies took the fake pistol, but didn’t make a big fuss.  I don’t think the other students found out that his gun wasn’t the real thing.

After that day, Eddie became my best student, and for the rest of the year, nobody, but NOBODY dared to act up during third period class.