I start by saying, “Don’t follow others because you think they are cooler than you are.”
So let me unravel that for you by telling a story that made one of the biggest impressions on me when I was a young teen. It all started with me looking up to a girl in the 7th grade who was way cooler (I thought) than I was. She had cute hair and a blossoming figure—which I didn’t have. Her dad was a big shot, and mine was not. She was popular with all the kids in my class, and I was a newbie who knew very few people. So, when she suggested that we go to a nearby town for shopping, I was all in.
We took a bus to the town closest to the military base where we lived. Once there, we went to Sears, where we tried on some clothes and walked out without paying for a few things. This was my first time to shoplift something, so it was scary but exhilarating. I felt part of something BIG. It seemed so easy, so on we went to a Woolworth store, something like a big Target, we each proceeded to get a big shopping bag—walk down the aisles of the make up section, and help ourselves to some inexpensive cosmetics.
I could feel the eyes of one of the saleswomen on the floor following me, so I cooled it for a bit and just moseyed on. Little did I know that the woman had already called the police. Soon a HUGE Alabama policeman came up to us, gesturing with his index finger. “Come with me girls” he said in his deep southern drawl. I knew immediately that we were in big trouble.
The policeman put us in the back of his patrol car that had a metal screen between him and the back seat. We both started bawling like crazy. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew it wasn’t good. We arrived at the police station/jail and were seated next to the policeman, who called each of our parents to come and get us. To say we were scared would be an understatement. The BIG policeman never locked us up, but he made a big show clanking the jail doors and rattling his keys loudly.
The wind up: Dad took about 45 minutes to arrive and I think I cried the whole time listening to the clanking of the jail doors. When my dad took me from the police station, he told me to sit in the back of the car. Driving home, he said nothing—which was the worst. Arriving home in shame, I was told that I couldn’t use the telephone for a year and that I was to have no company for the same.
That punishment was nothing compared to the agonizing moments of not knowing what would happen to me. It was the best lesson a person could have with no lasting consequences. To this day, I have not taken anything that isn’t mine without permission.
Vicki L Holmes, Associate Professor Emeritus
University of Nevada, Las Vegas
