It all started in the third quarter of the fifth grade. Sometime in February, I think.

Mr. Thomas freaked out when he discovered that, instead of paying attention to how he performed the astounding feat of adding and subtracting positive and negative integers, I was more content with leisurely flipping through the pages of the most recent Spider Man comic book. Go figure.

What did he expect? That I would find the way he tapped the chalk against the black-board and monotonously recounted the mathematical methods he had learned years ago in college truly, exquisitely comparable to the way a young man, endowed with spider-like powers after being bit by a radioactive arachnid, adorned in red, spider-webbed tights could walk on walls and swing from ten-story building to ten-story building on home-made material he shot from his wrists? Not only that, but the guy liked to help people, too. That was cool.

In contrast, it had often been discussed among the fifth-grade population that Mr. Thomas was, in fact, a serial killer. Although no hard evidence, other than his manic temper, had ever been secured, a rumor had once circulated that the man would walk the halls of Jergens Middle School--my school, from grades fifth to eighth--during lunch time, when no student was to be out of the lunch room, softly whistling tunes to the old Hitchcock movie, Psycho--most notably the one playing when the lady is stabbed in the shower. Of course, no one could be absolutely sure that the boy who told this story, Billy Anderson, was completely credible.

After all, the kid had once brought a cow's tongue, one his mother had bought for dinner, to class for show and tell. He had it in a brown paper bag and when it came his turn to present, he told everyone how he found out that old people not only have fake teeth, but that many of them also have fake tongues because often a person's tongue dries out in old age. I'm not sure everyone in the class-room really believed him but it seemed that mostly everybody was wondering what exactly Billy was up to. At that point, he took out the tongue, the one that had no doubt once belonged to a cow that hadn't seen old age, and showed everyone, holding it up high with his thumb and index finger. A lot of girls began to cry all of a sudden. Some of the boys laughed. The teacher gasped in horror and rushed Billy to the principal's office. I can't remember what exactly Billy thought of the whole incident. He probably laughed before and after the incident--before his presentation and after the scoldings he received from the teacher, the principal, and his parents, in that order. I recall throwing up my lunch. I suppose that was an early realization of what would eventually force me to stop eating animals.

Anyway, Mr. Thomas pulled me outside of the classroom, right in the middle of his lesson, and into the hallway. He was all red and talked in his typically short, choppy sentences about how absurd it was for a boy of my age to be reading comic books instead of paying attention to what was really important--the mathematics knowledge that I'd use to get a good-paying job in the not-so-distant future. I rolled my eyes, which was a mistake. He turned even more red at this and started to huff and puff. I was scared he'd blow me down, he was huffing and puffing so hard.

He didn't, though. He just brought me back into class by my shirt collar and pushed me down hard into my seat. He then resumed (what he considered to be) teaching his lesson. Only, this time, he wasn't so monotonous. In fact, he was completely unintelligible through his intermittent huffs and puffs. It didn't make any difference, though. He was still as intolerable as ever.

As soon as the bell rang, we all made our long-awaited escape from the room. I was more relieved than usual.

I was mad, to be honest. I was mad at the way Mr. Thomas treated not just me, but the entire fifth-grade. The more I'd thought about it in the aftermath of our last encounter--which, admittedly, wasn't the first--the madder I got. I mean, give me a break. We were only ten-year-old kids. We weren't graduate students. We didn't care about math, especially when it was taught to us in such a boring way. Like I said, we were just kids. We had our rights, didn't we?

Since math was the only subject that my class had with another teacher, I was able to find solace for the rest of the day in Ms. Goldman, my homeroom teacher.

Ms. Goldman was the first teacher I had ever had that I actually got along with. Everyone else liked her a lot, too. That was probably because she was quite pretty.

Ms. Goldman had short brown hair, brown eyes and often wore cool shirts with cool phrases like "Real Men Love Animals" and "Visualize Whirled Peas" (which I never really understood until I was in high school). Also, unlike the other lady teachers, she wore pants, instead of dresses. That immediately appealed to me because I don't like dresses at all. They're too traditional (that's what my mom would say, at least). Not only was her hair short, but her body was, too. I could look at her square in the eyes, if I stood on my toes. I was a pretty tall kid, though.

Anyway, I immediately made my way to Ms. Goldman and presented her with my story. I told her what Mr. Thomas had made of my disinterest in his teaching and how frustrated and angry he regularly made me. She sat me down, put her hand on my shoulder, and gently told me to relax. I willingly obeyed. She proceeded to tell me that she would have a word with Mr. Thomas and see what she could do about his behavior toward me. This made me very happy and I was actually excited for the next day, when I would see the undoubtedly favorable results of her promise.

My excitement had a head-on collision with a rock wall of disappointment a few minutes into math class the following day, however.

I was tersely called out into the hall by a reddening Mr. Thomas. In the familiar clipped manner, I was informed that if I expected to pass the fifth-grade, I should be more careful in how I conducted myself among the ranks of the faculty. While I didn't quite understand his wording, it slowly dawned on me what he meant--I was to watch out what I said to the teachers. Apparently, Ms. Goldman hadn't made much of an impact (not a positive one, at least).

I spent the rest of the hour in the class-room stewing over the vague words Mr. Thomas had said to me, and ignoring his occasional questions that pertained to his lesson. I was growing increasingly frustrated with the way he was flaunting his authority over me. The irritating way he taught his class didn't help either. I was sure he didn't have the right to treat me like that, or teach my class-mates and I the way he did. Why couldn't Ms. Goldman change Mr. Thomas? What had she said to him, anyway?

When I confronted Ms. Goldman about her inability to persuade Mr. Thomas to take it easy, she sat me down, like she had the day before, and made an attempt to explain to me how difficult it is to get through to some people. Some people couldn't be convinced or changed for the better overnight. She promised that she would persist in accommodating my request. I didn't really understand, but I did feel better.

In addition, I made an interesting discovery that night. It changed my life, to be honest.

I was watching the local and international news with my dad. I've always liked reading and watching the news. Back then, I always learned something about the town, the state, the country, or the world that nobody else at school knew--but my motives weren't as egotistic as that. In fact, I often told my friends about what I had learned, so they'd have the knowledge, too. They never seemed to be all that interested, though.

Anyway, in the aftermath of a rather disturbing story about the recent success of the local rodeo (which some of my friends went to see, despite my objections), I was suddenly confused to see the image of a suffering bucking bronco become an angry bunch of normal-looking people on the television screen. Most of them were chanting words and thrusting cardboard signs in the air. I couldn't read what a majority of them said, but the one I could make out had the words "LESS WORK! MORE PAY!" on it. I asked my dad what the people were all so upset about. He explained to me that, sometimes, when working people aren't treated fairly by their employers--their bosses, he emphasized, so as to ensure my understanding--they organize among the workers, form what's called a "union" and then go on what is called "strike". They basically stop working until their boss gives them either all of what they want or partly what they want. There are exceptions, though. When I asked my dad what he meant by that, he sort of shrugged and said that sometimes the boss fires all of the union members that went on strike. I said that was pretty unfair. My dad just said that's life. Pretty unfair life, if you ask me, I replied. He nodded, obviously disinterested.

The striking workers got me to thinking that night, as I laid in bed. It seemed to me that if those people were unsatisfied with the way they were treated by their boss, then they had a right to do whatever they could to positively change the way that boss employed the workers. All the stuff that I'd been taught about our democracy and the freedom that Americans have the right to enjoy seemed to justify that. Then I got to thinking harder and made a significant connection. If workers could strike, then why not students, too? After all, we had bosses--the teachers (not to mention the principal and vice-principal). And, like the workers I saw on television, we were being treated unfairly.

I was, however, a little unsettled by what my dad had said. I didn't want anyone to get kicked out of school, or anything like that. Still, it seemed like the right thing to do--to try to make a positive change. I resolved that if anyone were threatened with the prospect of expulsion, I would do what I could to lay the pressure on myself, rather than anyone else. That seemed like the right thing to do.

At that point, I got out of bed and spent the rest of the night writing an informational flyer, calling for a meeting with my fellow fifth-graders. The first thing I did the next day when I got to school was to find Waldo, my best friend.

His real name wasn't Waldo, by the way; it was Ben. We just called him that because in third grade his favorite sweater was striped like a candy-cane. Plus, he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses, like the cartoon character of the same name. He never wore a stocking cap, though. I guess he wasn't so willing to live up to his nick-namesake that he'd dress like a complete dork.

Incidentally, he was always wandering off with telling anyone and I remember the teachers were constantly having to go and find him at odd times of the school day.

I remember once on a field trip to the zoo, when we were in second grade, and before I really knew him, Waldo wasn't in line at lunch time, and he wasn't with his group, either. The teachers were worried, and we all spent an hour looking for him. I was the one who found the kid. It turned out that he had spent the entire two hours of our visit staring fixedly at the polar bears in their enclosure. He was crying, too. He thought it was sad and scary how the animals repetitiously swayed their heads back and forth. He told me he had seen on television how that meant an animal was suffering from boredom. He emphasized the word "suffering" with a squeal and intensified his outpouring of tears. I had to hug him to get him to calm down. That was when we became best friends, actually. I guess he appreciated my understanding.

Anyway, Waldo reluctantly acted as a sentry for me as I sneaked into the faculty room, which happened to be vacated at that moment due to the routine staff meeting in the library. If a teacher were to come, Waldo would do his best to prevent his or her entrance. Waldo was only reluctant because he didn't like any of the teachers--except for Ms. Goldman--and they didn't like him (except for Ms. Goldman). He didn't want to have them hate him more than they already did. I told him it'd only take a second. He told me he was glad.

I was in there for only two minutes and managed to photocopy a bunch of the flyers. I knocked softly on the door twice--the signal Waldo and I agreed that would ensure my unnoticed exit. He knocked back once and hesitated. I almost panicked. One knock meant that a teacher was coming. Then he knocked again. With relief, I began to open the door but I suddenly heard Waldo whisper, "No, you dork! Mr. Thomas is coming! Hide!" I almost puked.

Still, I was determined to not get caught and figured the best temporary hiding place would be behind the door. I just hoped that Mr. Thomas wouldn't open it the whole way and discover that he had broken the body of a little ten-year-old kid. Of course, he'd probably be delighted.

I heard Waldo say a few muffled words and the clipped, muffled response from Mr. Thomas. I felt sweat run down my armpits. I was beginning to shake. The door knob twisted but suddenly stopped. Unexpectedly, I heard a shout and foot-steps pound loudly outside the door. Someone was running. After a few seconds, I conjured up enough courage to peek out into the hall, from behind the door. Mr. Thomas was nowhere in sight.

Come to think of it, neither was Waldo. Where'd he go?

I found out later, in Ms. Goldman's class, that Waldo had been sent to the principal's office for calling Mr. Thomas a "bad word". My heart practically swelled with pride when I heard that. I loved that selfless little guy. He was the best friend a guy could have. I only hoped he wasn't in too much trouble.

By lunch time, the word was out. The flyer I wrote and photocopied had been distributed among the entire fifth grade. I had no idea what the response would be, but I was incredibly hopeful that my fellow class-mates would be behind the idea. It was the only way we had a chance at setting Mr. Thomas straight. We had to unionize and go on strike, demanding that Mr. Thomas not only treated us as free-thinking human beings, but that he teach his class with a bit more enthusiasm. We had to do it as soon as possible, too. We only had four months left in school--but we weren't going to spend them suffering.

I had specified a meeting on the flyer I distributed. At the lunch break, when we were all allowed outside of the lunch room, all of those interested in the idea met out on the playground, where touch-football is normally played. I was astounded. It appeared that the whole fifth-grade was there. I couldn't help but smile as I nervously called for the attention of the bubbling students. A hushed silence fell and suddenly I found sixty, or so, pairs of eyes on mine. I cleared my throat and spoke.

With my pal, Waldo, by my side (he was okay and not too mad at me), I thanked them all for coming and told them what I had learned recently, although I was careful not to mention how new the concept was to me (I didn't want them to realize how inexperienced I was, after all). I explained the concept of unionization of employees and was pleased to see nods and smiles from several of those gathered. I was even more pleased when the idea that we students were, in fact, employees of a sort--only much less free than normal, harder-working people--was greeted with more chatters of excitement from the crowd. The climax was reached when I expounded my idea that it was necessary for us fifth-graders to organize our own union and go on strike and everyone cheered. However, when I elaborated on why I felt it necessary to strike, everyone pretty much froze.

After a short pause, a hand was raised. It was my turn to freeze. Hesitantly, I called on the hand. It belonged to Lydia Hewlett, whom I admit I occasionally had a major crush on (I found her intelligence attractive; her glasses, too).

"Won't we get in trouble if we just stop going to class?" she asked, "After all, our parents pay taxes so we can go to school. I know that my mom and dad would probably get pretty mad if they found out I suddenly stopped going. Won't it be more trouble than it's worth? Besides, we've only got four months until school is out."

Great. It was just my luck that someone who actually thinks months go by quickly was able to eloquently point out the one potential flaw in my plan.

I attempted to convince her otherwise. I pointed out that we had our dignity and that it wasn't fair that we should let a mean, boring teacher push us around and make us dread going to class. School was supposed to be fun, after all. I'd even heard my parents say that math is fun. Sometimes it had been (everyone gasped at this). Only, not with Mr. Thomas. The man wasn't just a stick in the mud--he was a giant Sequoia growing in quicksand.

Most everyone agreed and I again had the majority on my side. The minority, however, walked away. Lydia, naturally their leader, was staunch in not having any part in the "sure-to-be-disastrous plot," as she called it. I caught up to her and pleaded for her to consider otherwise, but she was adamant. However, we made an agreement that we would respect each other's decision. Neither would interfere with the other. We shook on it.

I made my way back to the rest of the fifth-grade. For the remaining thirty-five minutes of the lunch break, we formulated the details of our strike and pledged to make good on it the following day. It was all so exciting that I was shaking. By the time the bell rang, we had decided: the Jergens Student Union, Local 5 (signifying our grade level, of course) would go on strike the following day!

I barely slept that night. When I awoke in the morning, I was quite nervous. I was thrilled. I was pretty nauseous, too. Still, I was able to hide the cardboard sign I had made the previous night from my parents as I made my way to the school bus. It was a proud accomplishment, to prevent my parents from laying eyes (that morning, at least) on the brilliantly colored words that translated what my heart felt so strongly--"NO MORE SCHOOL 'TIL THOMAS COOLS!" I was ready and I wasn't going to stand by helplessly any longer.

When the school bus pulled up to Jergens Middle School, a beautiful sight greeted my eyes. A chanting, churning line of students stood in front of the building, waving their home-made signs in the air, most of which read simply "JERGENS STUDENT UNION, LOCAL 5 ON STRIKE!".

A group of adults--probably parents--stood in front of them, mouths agape, hands on chins in confusion. I rushed past them and spoke with several of my fellow fifth-graders. One told me that a bunch of them had walked to school early and had been standing in the cold, winter morning air for about an hour, eagerly anticipating the arrival of their class-mates. They had struck upon the idea of chanting and waving their signs vigorously in the air to keep warm. That was pretty cool--I hadn't even told anyone about that aspect of striking yet! I suddenly felt quite comfortable with these kids. I felt an instant bond with each one them that I was pretty sure wouldn't be broken for years.

Then Mr. Thompson, the principal emerged from the building.

At first, he just glared at us, with his hands on his sides. His brow was pretty furrowed. I knew that meant we were about to be subjected to the infamous "Thompson treatment," entailing a lot of shaking of the bald head, a disapproving snarl on his lips, and a scary gleam in his eye. I was not, however, to be shaken from my protest--and I was sure that my class-mates felt the same way.

I was proven wrong when the first bark was sounded. A couple of the picketing fifth-graders dropped their signs and began to run away from the picket line. Several of the other kids shouted after them, but the articulations didn't do much good. The deserters just ran faster. One loyal fifth-grader began to chase after them, but gave up once he realized that he'd never be able to manage their pace, and then some. Those kids were hauling.

Meanwhile, the principal had made his way to the front of our picket line. All eyes were on him, and the chanting had ceased with the first bark. The excitement over our abandoning ranks died a sudden death.

Slowly--but surely--the nodding began. The bald head moved from one side to the other, meticulously, and with apparent deliberation. As momentum increased, so did the degree to which the lips metamorphosed into their appropriate gnarling appearance--a thin artifact, long devoid of any measure of vibrant, crimson color, the upper one grew the steadiest, and, in turn, the ugliest.

Then his eye-lids grew more narrow. Predictably, his pupils seemed to intensify with this action. His eyes definitely became scary with their gleam.

The process really creeped everyone out, to be honest. That was probably Mr. Thompson's intention, though. It was like the man became a werewolf and relished in the similarity, as it, quite understandably, scared the shit out of everyone to whom it was directed.

Much to my chagrin, he focused those gleaming orbs on mine.

" So --, " he snarled, "this was your idea, wasn't it? Mr. Thomas has told me about your behavioral problems in his classroom. I should have expected something as childish as this sooner or later. Come with me ," and he latched a large hand onto my dwarfed shoulder, " and as for the rest of you --" he continued, "get into the school and immediately report to your teachers! You'll all be dealt with later."

The words would have normally had a profound effect on those they were directed to. Normally, the kids would have all dropped their heads toward the ground, shuffled their feet, and followed the order, at the fear of punishment if they were to disobey. They would have submitted with embarrassment. Normally, they wouldn't have dared to challenge the terrifying voice of authority that held the very quality of their lives in its ability to formulate words and then act upon them.

It was not, however, a normal day. These kids were on strike, after all. They didn't have to do anything until their demands were met, dammit. So, they just stood there, and, sure, some of them looked fixedly at the ground, but the rest all looked squarely at Mr. Thompson's gleaming, feral eyes and didn't budge. They were all silent, but I could feel their anger. It was like a raw energy tangibly crackling from their bodies.

I felt the grip on my shoulder slowly tighten as Mr. Thompson's realization made its way from his brain to his finger-tips. I wasn't sure what he'd do next--heck, I wasn't sure what he could have done next. What he did say surprised me.

"All right. I understand. You'll all be left in the cold for now --but be certain that I'll have you in and punished very, very soon! Be prepared you little fools !" he shouted, and then pushed me to the ground. Glaring the entire way at me, he re-entered the building as the morning bell rang. As a result of his fixed stare on me, he ran pretty hard into the door. He made a weird snorting sound and then successfully made his way through it on the second attempt. It was pretty funny.

A cheer suddenly went up. School had begun--we had forced Mr. Thompson to back down--and we were officially on strike from the fifth grade!

The day was grueling, as we struggled to stay warm. The sign-waving definitely helped with that, though. The incredible thing was how our spirit didn't dampen once during the entire seven hours. We kept chanting and singing songs about our predicament, with an occasional snack or bathroom break (we were sneaky about the latter). It's been so long that I can't even remember the songs I wrote. I do, however, recall fondly how it was the strangest--as well as the most beautiful--experience I've ever had.