Not many ways out of this cold northern town

My first year of teaching, in 1997, was exhausting.  Aside from teaching Drama, the only area where I knew what I was doing, I was also required to teach English, Psychology, Health, and  Information Processing.  I was perpetually stressed out.

One afternoon at the end of the school day, I walked around the room woefully picking up scraps of paper and wondering why I had chosen this career when a dejected looking boy entered the room and cleared his throat to get my attention.

"Oh hi, Justin," I said.

"Hi."

There was a long pause during which we stared at each other.  Finally I broke the silence.

"Did you need something?"

"Yeah, you gave me a detention.  Remember?"

I thought about that.  I didn't remember.  

"Not really," I finally admitted.  "What did you do?"

"I dunno."

"Seriously?  Why did I give you a detention?"

"I have no idea."

I didn't doubt his sincerity.  I was a new teacher, prone to inconsistency and bouts of ridiculous strictness to compensate for being too lax most of the time.  It was entirely possible I'd given him a detention for something I'd only perceived he'd done wrong, and the fact that he'd even turned up for the detention at all seemed indicative of a certain degree of honesty.

I told him to go home.  How could I punish him without either of us knowing why?

What I've learned since 1997 is that detentions are NOT a useful way for me to torture kids.  I don't have a good enough memory to keep track of detentions, so it is necessary for me to do all my torturing on the spot.  When I tell my students that I don't hold grudges and they get a fresh start with me every single day, it's not because I'm the Queen of Zen.  It's because my brain is defective.  

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