Return to Nostalgia page I Never Got Over It by James (Jim) Karantonis I am 82-years old and I have a true story to tell. The story begins when I was 11-years old having completed the 5th grade in elementary school . . . but ends when I was thirteen, a teenager. My dad's small grocery store in a small city in West Virginia had gone bankrupt. But at the time that information was never shared with me by my parents. And they never told me until two weeks before we would be leaving to live in another city where my dad found a new job. My parents’ decided that they did not want me to go through the emotional pain for too long before the move, leaving my friends, my school, everything I had known as a young boy. But added pain came when dad said, "The city is no place for a dog. A farmer is coming tonight to take him."" My dog, Midnight. I had named him when I picked him out when he was puppy, and I was seven-years old. My dad had been the one to allow me to have a dog as a reward for helping in his small store after school. It was as if Midnight and I grew up together. So when dad announced this horrific news, I started crying, almost hysterical, and I was angry at the same time. My parents then justified what was taking place. Both said it repeatedly: “You will get over it. You will get over it.” And so we moved to Dundalk Md. that bordered the big city of Baltimore. But it did not go as my parents' planned. I rebelled and in blue-collar Dundalk I hung out with a tough group of older boys. I got in trouble. Even arrested for fighting. It was 1957 and now I was 13-years old, a teenager. I was now in the 8th grade in 8B. (At the time, the school system tracked students and put them in classes from 8A through 8G). I had a social studies teacher, Robert Lane. Mr. Lane was someone I thought I could respect. At that time, I no longer respected my father. Social Studies class lasted for two class periods every day. This teacher, tough presenter, macho man, sleeves rolled up, spoke with authority. I thought just maybe he would be a hero. But the guys I hung out with carried more sway over my behavior. Bad behavior. In the last month of my 8th grade class, Mr. Lane, the social studies teacher called four of us boys to his desk. He told us that we were going to fail unless we turned in a final report summarizing the various subjects we had covered of History, World Geography and Literature, and we passed the final exam. I made a serious decision. I didn't go out with the older boys. I stayed home. I stayed out of trouble. I put together a final report and I studied for the final exam. Upon completing the exam, which I passed easily, Mr. Lane, my possible hero, called the four of us up to his desk. I knew I was the only one that had done the report and passed the exam. The other three boys could care less and did not do what I did. He pointed to each of us and went from the first student to the fourth. I was third in the line. Mr Lane, very matter-of-factually said, "You passed; You passed; You failed; You passed.” I laughed and they did too. It was a joke. But later that evening at home the phone rang. It was Mr. Lane. I heard my mother speaking with my teacher. She said more than once, “Whatever you think is best, Mr. Lane. Whatever you think is best.” After she hung up the phone, my mother said, "Mr. Lane is going to help keep you out of trouble. He had gotten an agreement from the Principal and the School Board to keep you back with him for another year in the 8th grade.” So “no joke.” I failed. The next year on the first day of social studies in 8A, it felt like all of the classmates began whispering when I entered the room, "Here was the student who had failed this class the year before.’ Mr. Lane had a student desk next to his large desk in the front of the class. He came up to me and told me that I would sit next to him so he would make certain I was doing my work. So I sat. He announced for everyone to open our history text. As the class opened books, I sat there. He said to me quietly, “Jim, open your book.” I sat there. Everyone in class was watching. Some were whispering with each other. I sat there. Through the courses on history and geography and literature, I sat there. At the end of class , Mr. Lane had me stay back. He asked, "Where do you want to sit?"" I pointed to the back of the room, separated from all the other students. He agreed. The next day I moved a desk to the back wall, and sat. Now I put in place my lesson plan for my second year in the 8th grade. I had brought a couple novels to read. I was always a big reader. Even in elementary school I read: Robert Louis Stevenson’s novels such as Treasure Island, Kidnapped, Jack London’s Call of the Wild, White Fang, and on and on. Now, here in my 2nd year in the 8th grade, I was into more classics such as War and Peace. Although I never got the symbolism, I loved the story. And being of Greek heritage, I even read Nikos Kazantzakis: Zorba the Greek, and more. I took no tests, did no annual report, and I passed the 8th grade. At that time in my life, what lesson did this rebellious teenager learn? "Never trust an an adult unless you really know them."" Post Script: New Years Day some 60-some years later, around 2010, the house phone rang. Mary Lou, my muse and wife, answered. She said, "I’ll get him. Just one minute."" She walked to me and handed me the phone and said, “It’s someone named Robert Lane who would like to talk with you.” For a moment, I was confused. Who? Robert Lane. My 8th grade teacher. He had remained in my emotional life for all of my years since that horrific experience when I was 13-years old. I even included his name as a self-absorbed Army psychiatrist in my novel, Crazy 8’s Soldier’s Still. I took the phone from Mary Lou and answered, “Yes, This is Jim.” And yes, it was my 8th grade teacher, Mr. Lane. He said, "I’ve been trying to track you down for a long time."" "After all these years?"" I responded, still confused by his call. He went directly to his reason for calling. "I wanted to apologize for failing you in the 8th grade. I should have never done that. You were the only student ever failed."" I listened, flashing back to that never erased time in my life. Mr. Lane said, “I learned from that mistake. I wanted to help kids in trouble . . . even more than teaching class. So I went on to become a guidance counselor. I really wanted to save you and others like you from not living-up to your potential.” I was so taken back by his call, I told him I could not talk about it now. So we agreed to meet at his home near Annapolis, Md. And we did. I drove to his home that was off a small lane and pulled into the driveway. He met me at the door. Amazingly, he practically looked like he did fifty-some years ago. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled-up. I thought, I must be imagining this. That’s how he looked everyday in front of the class. When Mr.Lane taught me in 1958, he must have been in his 30’s. I never asked but now he had to be in his ‘80s. He led me to a room with windows almost floor to ceiling that looked-out on the bay. His home wasn’t fancy or too large, but very comfortable-looking. I could see that in his back yard there was a small dock and a canoe. We sat a table, he opposite of me. Mr. Lane asked if I cared for a refreshment. I did not want a thing. I just wanted to get my feelings out for that past life of mine. I began the conversation. I told him how painful that experience of failing had been to me. How losing my friends, the second time in my young life. The embarrassment of being with the younger students. my anger, my problems with my father. And then him. And how I believed that I could never ever trust an adult again. Never. I could feel tears running down my face as I went back to those years. Throughout my confession, Mr Lane sat looking to the side of the room, not at me, listening, no nodding of his head, just quiet. As I spoke, I felt like I was underwater in a pool holding my breath. I needed to get to the surface so I could exhale that something inside of me that needed to escape. And I did. I could finally breath. I confessed how grateful I was that he got hold of me. Mr. Lane, again, said he was sorry for his part in my difficult past. He asked about my life’s work? And I was proud to share my history in civil rights, and my Masters in History from Howard University. I asked about his past and he then shared some important events in his life. The good and the not-so-good. We ended our time together walking in his back yard. Robert Lane invited me and my wife, Mary Lou, to bring our kayaks and launch from his small dock. Both of us grateful for the sense of relief to have met in this time in our lives. For me, the past with my teacher, Robert Lane, became a life lesson of “forgiveness” and “reconciliation.” And as for the phrase: "You'll get over it” I’m 82-years old, and I understand it now. "I never got over it.""