School started the day after Labor Day in 1970, whether I wanted it to or not. I was 14, in 9th grade, and still at the junior high. I suppose it wasn't so bad, at least I was one of the older kids finally. By now I knew how junior high worked, where everything was, and most of the teachers. Junior High seemed to be divided into three groups. There were the cool guys, the cheerleaders with beautiful long hair and super cute clothes and the jocks who played every sport; the nobodies (I was one of them) who were not so cute, popular, talented or so rich, but they were OK; and the want-a-be hippies who hung out on the street corner across from the school, smoked behind the bushes and talked about dope. They still scared me to death, but since I didn't know any of them personally they didn't bother me too much.
One good thing about starting 9th grade was finally being old enough to go across the street to release time Seminary. For an hour we went to a scripture study class put on by our church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day-Saints, (the Mormons). I'd heard all about seminary from my older brother, Keith, who started Seminary the year before. Every day he came home with awesome stories about his cool teacher and the stories he told.
My teacher’s name was Brother Moss. This was his first year teaching, and he wasn't very sure of himself nor was he very good with discipline. The kids, especially the boys, really gave him a hard time. My hour was probably the worst of the day, there were a lot popular boys in class who thought they were really cool and never stopped talking. It was kind of fun at first, but after awhile they got really annoying. Poor Brother Moss eventually gave up trying to teach lessons and made us read the scriptures all class long. It was really boring.
Although I was not one of the talkers, I didn't help things out at all. I thought Brother Moss was a terrible teacher, and a lot of times I hid my latest Agatha Christie murder mystery inside my scriptures, so it looked like I was reading the scriptures but I wasn't. I didn’t do the assigned reading at home, either, so I wasn’t learning much.
Each week we had a test over the chapters we should have studied. Since I hadn't read the assignments I didn’t do well on the tests, and I failed the mid term exam. It was really embarrassing. I knew I shouldn’t fail any tests, but especially not in Seminary. Instead of feeling bad for not doing my work, though, I blamed Brother Moss for being a terrible teacher.
We took the midterm on Wednesday. Thursday after Seminary, some of the boys in my class snuck into the girl’s bathroom and put a cherry bomb under the toilet. Somehow they rigged a long fuse, so they were gone before the explosion, but it wasn't hard for Brother Moss to figure out how it happened. The next day when we went to Seminary there was a sign on the door telling us we had all been expelled from Seminary, and to go back across the street and report in at the auditorium. When we got there we found the Principal waiting or us. He really read us the riot act. As well as being our Principal at the Junior High, he was also a member of our Church, and a Bishop. He yelled at us for the whole hour, telling us what bad examples we were being, how much damage we had caused in the Seminary building, and how mean we had been to Brother Moss.
I was never more embarrassed in my life, or scared! How could I be kicked out of seminary? (Of course, in the end it was only for one day, but it sure scared me.) When the principal told us we should be ashamed of how hard we had made it on poor Brother Moss, a brand new teacher, I didn’t feel sorry for him at all. I still blamed him for my bad grade in Seminary, for getting me in trouble, and for being such a terrible teacher.
I went home that day afraid to face mom and dad. I had been kicked out of Seminary, I had a failing grade, and I was in so much trouble. But when I told them about it they were more than understanding, and I didn’t get in trouble at all. In fact, they thought it was kind of funny. Dad said he bet those boys had learned their lesson and he let it go at that. I didn't
We had planned a camping trip for that weekend. Dad was taking the boys deer hunting, and we girls came along just for fun. We took the camper and went someplace up by Flagstaff
Early in the morning dad and the boys went hunting. Mom and the little girls played games in the camper, but I sat outside by the fire and worried. My stomach was still in knots, but it was easing up a little. Finally I went for a walk in the woods, and as my anger subsided, I started to think clearer. I realized that I was not in trouble for what those boys had done, it was not my fault, and I would be OK. I even began to feel a little sorry for Brother Moss. He didn’t have any experience handling teenagers, and our particular class was really tough. I knew if I had tried harder and done my homework I would not have failed the tests. I also knew that if I had tried I could have been friendlier to him and been at least one person in the class who listened. I finally decided that on Monday I was going to go to Seminary and apologize.
Monday I walked across the street to the Seminary building feeling better about things than I had the whole semester. I was going to tell Brother Moss I was sorry, I was going to work hard, and I was going to try to make his first year of teaching a success.
But Brother Moss wasn’t there, and I never saw him again. Our new Seminary teacher told us that Brother Moss had decided to quit and become an accountant. The new teacher was excellent. He knew how to handle teenagers, even stinking boys, and he made learning the scriptures fun. In the end, though, I think I learned more from Brother Moss than I learned the whole rest of the year.
All of my life I have wished I could find Brother Moss and tell him I'm sorry. Who knows, maybe somehow he will read this story, and that would make me very happy. Whether he does or not, one thing is for sure. Brother Moss taught me one of the most important lessons of my life. Now when I'm angry about something, I stop and ask myself, “Hey, why am I mad? Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?" Usually that's exactly what's going on, and then, even though it's hard, I try to talk myself into correcting my mistakes, not wasting energy on being angry.
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