Every time I got detention, I was put in the same crowded classroom that smelled of plastic burning on a super-hot radiator and reeked of my own guilt, regret and shame but mostly that plastic smell. I remember it so vividly that now every time the heat comes on in my apartment or in a classroom, I feel like a reprimand is right around the corner. I was in detention for a lot of my middle school years. To me, doing something I knew I was going to get in trouble for later was like me enjoying plugging my fingers into the electrical sockets even though I knew I was going to get shocked. I knew the bad consequences of my actions but that never stopped me. Just sweaty hands waiting to get electrocuted. But getting in trouble wasn’t worth the aftershock, until I was in the 7th grade. 7th grade is where I actually gained something from detention. I had a teacher that, to my benefit, had the same beliefs on the students in detention as I did. I believe that all crimes are crimes of passion. You don’t do something wrong without a reason or a motive. Mr. Molinari believed in this too. He knew I wasn’t just a helpless bad kid. He saw that there was a motive to my “badness”. But at the time I never understood why he took pity on me or why he treated me with such kindness. Why did he take me in instead of letting me sit in a quiet room, replaying my mistakes in my head until I promised too never do it again. I now like to believe that he saw my potential. He knew about my interest in social studies before I did. He knew that I could be a much better student than I was then. His kindness changed my attitude towards school and made me value the education I was receiving. 

Instead of my well-deserved detention, he would take me to his drafty classroom with those warm yellow long overhead lights and openly defy child labor laws by making me file all of his students paperwork. Only way he’d get me to cooperate was if he played Pandora’s “Disney Station” and bought me a slice of pizza. A pizza with a stench so strong, it masked the smell of those plastic burning radiators. This went on for most of winter. We would sing along to The Little Mermaid, or change our voices for each of the townspeople in Beauty in the Beasts’ “Belle” while munching on delicious pizza. I realized that as I tried to hit Ariel’s high notes, I also began to simultaneously read his social studies essays that I was just supposed to be organizing. I found myself grading them in my head, trying to think of ways I could explain the prompt better or what words I would’ve added or taken out. I started to like detention, or at least the detention that involved Mr.Molinari and his essays. I realized that every time I removed and reinstalled the sloppy staples from his paperwork, and read the Times New Roman written essays, I was inching closer to discovering that I had a passion for social studies and a possible interest in teaching.

The beginning of spring is where I had my big epiphany moment, which I like to give credit to Mr. Molinari for. Detention was always at 3pm after school- prime time for kids to play tag. Molinari’s room was on the 6th floor and filled with tall windows that overlooked our school’s playground. I could hear the laughter of kids whose essay I was probably grading, running around and enjoying the cold but soft spring wind and I noticed that I didn’t feel an ounce of envy. Even though I was sitting in a cramped desk with my 6’2 teacher, having to tuck my feet under my chair so I wouldn’t kick him, I knew I would rather be here than anywhere else.  I loved listening to Mr. Molinari speak about the reason why thought the cold war was still considered to be going on, and hear him speak about why he loved what he was doing even though he had to drive and take an hour-long train ride to get to school. His passion was slowly rubbing off on me. I don’t think I was copying him; I just think I finally found someone I could look up to. Someone I hoped to be like. I wasn’t helping to grade his work for the chance at some smelly pizza, I was grading it because it made the adrenaline rush of getting in trouble suddenly feel like an itch I had satisfyingly already scratched.  I didn’t want to be like those kids I watched from the 6th floor, I wanted to be someone who could relate to Mr. Molinari. 

So, I turned away from the distracting windows and turned my attention to the empty desk behind me, neatly organized in strategically placed rows. I dreamed of the day I would be standing in front of those desk, teaching a subject I was so passionate about that I wouldn’t even mind the lingering smell Mr.Molinari’s pizza always left. I was thankful for the detention that Mr. Molinari introduced me to. It helped me realize that my days of sticking my fingers into electrical sockets were behind me and I could finally focus on something more fulfilling: the hope that one day I too would be teaching social studies. I thank Mr.Molinari for showing me a different side to the education system, a side that I one day would like to be a part of.