Throughout my elementary school career, no three words frightened me more than THE RED ZONE. The Red Zone was, in reality, several red zones, or painted red boxes, scattered around the edges of Sunset Elementary School
Earning a trip to The Red Zone was my worst nightmare; a nightmare I consciously avoided throughout my elementary school career. Never comfortable with unkind words or looks from the teachers I so admired, I strove throughout elementary school to listen, follow directions, and complete both class work and home work with care. I never dreaded a parent teacher conference or report card, but rather looked forward to the positive comments I was sure to receive; comments that my parent’s would hear and take pride in. The Red Zone, though a looming threat in my own mind, was never once threatened. Therefore, imagine my surprise, no my horror, when, in my last year at Sunset Elementary School, my worst nightmare came true with a trip to The Red Zone, and that highly dreaded mark on my permanent record.
As a student eager to please, and used to being loved by my teachers, having a teacher that was indifferent to my charms was foreign and baffling. However, in the fifth grade my teacher, Mrs. F, was not only indifferent to my eagerness, but also unimpressed by my abilities. She was not, however, indifferent to Kay’s abilities. In fact, all Kay had to do was smile, and toss her blonde, ribboned curls and Mrs. F not only sung praises, but also practically broke into opera over the wonders of Kay. No matter how hard I worked, how well I behaved, Mrs. F’s loyalty to Kay could not be broken; everyone else was mediocre at best. Therefore, it should not have come as a surprise when one day after returning from a three-day absence without my homework completed (because I was deathly ill) that Mrs. F sentenced me to The Red Zone. For me, a girl who had really only heard hushed whisperings of The Red Zone, a trip to The Red Zone, and for something as minor as not completing my homework due to illness, was not just surprising, but shocking.
When Mrs. F asked me for the eagle drawing that was due that day, and I responded by telling her that I had yet to complete it due to my sickness, I expected her to obligingly allow me two or three more days to work on it. Instead, she stared at me crossly, told me I had been aware it was due for over a week, turned to her desk, pulled out the red slip indicating a sentence to The Red Zone and in the sickeningly perfect handwriting of an elementary school teacher began inscribing my name across the top. Each dainty swoop and swirl of the pen brought with it the unbearable screeching that accompanies nails being painfully scraped down a chalkboard. Stunned, I turned, walked zombie like back to my desk, and stared with unseeing eyes at Mrs. F as she began the next lesson. It was not until the recess bell rang and she forcefully thrust the slip indicating my internment into my hands that the reality of the situation hit me. Tears burned hot and fast down my face. Snot ran flood like down my throat and out of my nose. Gasping for air, unable to stop the torrential downpour, I lumbered my way out of the classroom and onto the schoolyard, The Red Zone looming before me. Next to me, my best friend, Laura, walked, arm around my shoulders consoling me, talking to me, trying her best to calm me by lessoning the torture, easing the pain.
Time is deceptive. Memories tricky. As vivid as my memory of being sentenced to The Red Zone is, my memory of sitting in The Red Zone is short-lived and somewhat foggy. During the fifteen to twenty minutes I sat in that square, two things ring true; Laura acting as the perfect friend by giving up her entire recess to sit next me, just outside of that red square, and console me as I sobbed the entire time; and the sounds of laughter, jump ropes, and screams that daily accompany children at play.
With Laura’s help, I managed to stop crying and finish my day in relative calm. Though I do believe the flood gates once again opened when that afternoon, upon being asked how my day was by my mother, I was forced to relive the nightmare that was my sentencing to The Red Zone. I was not only ashamed, but also feared my parent’s disapproval, their disappointment in the child that had never been in trouble. However, never normal, my parents reacted with laughter. The emotional trauma I had suffered was to them amusing; so amusing and poignant that my trip to The Red Zone inspired my father to write a country western song. The laughter and hilarity it brought my family dried up my tears and helped me to see the hilarity of the situation. However, Mrs. F’s lack of sympathy for my emotional state, as well as her never-ending loyalty to Kay (the name she chose for the daughter she had soon after my exit from the fifth grade), forever earned her my disdain.
A brief exert from Rodger Coupe’s Song “Sitting in The Red Zone of Heaven”
I’m sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven
Repenting for the sins of my life.
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