When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher introduced a new weekly competition called "Student of the Week." Every Friday afternoon she would saunter out from behind her desk, a freshly word-processed certificate in hand, and appoint one poor soul to a weeklong sentence of hatred from his or her peers.
"You should all learn from Jerianne," she would say, patting the winner's back as if the girl was a cancer survivor.
"Shouldn't we be learning from the teacher instead?" asked a boy who never, ever won Student of the Week.
I'm sure to our teacher this was a fantastic incentive for students to behave themselves and pay attention. I used to picture her printing out that certificate every week, praising herself for her marvelous idea.
"You truly are a genius, Mrs. Branz," she would tell herself. "Your students will claw at each other just to kiss your shoe. Soon, you'll be principal."
Then she would throw her head back and let out a good, hearty laugh.
For the first few weeks we viciously vied for the title, each of us as clueless as the next on how to impress her. Some students complimented her seasonal vests, while others shouted the Pledge of Allegiance at the top of their lungs. You'd think the class had been threatened with deportation.
Our teacher was equally clueless on how to respond to the bizarre behavior.
"Michael, stop smiling at me," she would snap during religion class. "And no, I am not the patron saint of charity."
That certificate was as much a scarlet letter as it was a trophy. I held my breath every time Jerianne opened her locker the following week, praying that dozens of little plastic baggies of cocaine might spill out.
"She was such a nice girl," I would've sighed, as the cops hauled her away in handcuffs. "Surely no Student of the Week, though."
Over time, our teacher lowered her standards, finding the thinnest rays of hope in the darkest of horses. By the time Mark won for essentially not running away from school that week, we saw through the charade and gave up trying.
Ten years later, when I catch myself beaming at my boss, I ponder our culture's competitive nature.
Then, I remember how proud I felt holding that certificate. How warm it felt in my hands. How pretty the font rendered the capital "E" in my name.
"…WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!!!"
