A seventh-grade student sat at his desk fearing the absolute worst. It was Friday, June 8, 1984. It was also the last day of school before summer vacation.
His knobby knees knocked. His heart raced. His palms were so sweaty, he needed a "wet floor” sign next to his desk.
The 13-year-old had slogged through a challenging year at home and, moments earlier, his homeroom teacher had revealed in dramatic fashion that when the report cards were distributed at the end of class, one would show that someone had failed the seventh grade and would be retained.
Someone in the back of the room asked what the word meant. “In this case,” the teacher announced, “retained means he’s going to repeat the seventh grade.”
The young man sat at his desk and wondered how he would ever tell his parents that their son, a student with a history of good grades, had collapsed and would not advance to the eighth grade with his friends.
He’d qualified for the county science fair earlier that year and placed third among hundreds of entries. He’d won awards for his writing and excelled at band. He’d won speech and history contests. But now he was poised to walk up the driveway carrying a report card that weighed more than he did.
Disclosure: I have not researched this story and it hasn’t been fact-checked. So how do I know it so well? Because this is my story.
I, Jason Wright, failed the seventh grade.
I closed my eyes and with my fingertips traced the carved-in pencil slot on the bottom of the slanted desktop. In that moment, I remembered hearing the news that doctors had discovered a tumor the size of a grapefruit attached to one of my father’s kidneys. In the next moment I wondered whether my father would live to see me graduate — not from high school, but from middle.
The teacher began handing out the report cards and I felt my pulse skip and pop like an old vinyl record. I wiped my hands on my Levis and studied my desk until the report card slid into view. I unwound the red piece of string that held the flap closed and removed the tri-fold piece of canary cardstock. At the top of the paper my eyes immediately found the word written and circled in cherry red magic marker: “Retained."
I quickly folded and returned the paper to its envelope, like a body exhumed and returned to its casket. I fought tears, left for the restroom without permission and gazed at my reflection in the cracked mirror with graffiti scrawled in the corners.
I wondered, “Will my parents still love me?”
A few days after the school year ended, I returned with my mother and father to meet with the principal and discuss my options. We learned I could repeat the year, earn satisfactory grades and advance to the eighth grade. Or, I could attend two classes — math and English — at a local high school’s summer school program. If my grades were acceptable, I would begin the eighth grade as if nothing had ever happened.
The discussion was a short one — I would not be retained.
In the car on the way home, in a word picture framed by enormous love and faith, my parents explained how the summer school commitment would be a sacrifice for our entire family. No doubt it would mean a different sort of summer than I’d hoped for.
While I participated in summer school, my friends went swimming at the local pool. While I studied for math tests, the gang from church went to scout camp. While I wrote essays, my best friend spent a week at Virginia Beach.
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