Growing up, I was always getting into trouble.
Not really serious trouble, although I did have a visit from a police officer more than once.
"What were you thinking?"
An excellent question, one I rarely knew the answer to.
The strange thing was that I knew the difference between right and wrong. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that while other kids seemed to see a bad idea and avoid it, I'd see a bad idea and think, ‘this could be funny.’
I spent a fair bit of time by myself in the naughty corner at primary school.
At high school, I achieved what was probably a unique distinction. During woodwork class, I had to stand in a position where both the woodwork teacher and the principal could keep an eye on me.
It was like being under 24-hour surveillance before CCTV was invented.
The principal walked past. "What are you up to, Burdett?" He knew me by my last name, which must be a good thing.
Looking back, it should probably have been humiliating, a real punishment.
Funnily enough, it wasn't. Part of me felt different, part of me felt rebellious, and if I'm completely honest, part of me was secretly proud of challenging the system.
Not that the system seemed particularly challenged; it usually won.
I often remember thinking – ‘I wish I didn't do dumb sh*t."
It wasn't like I woke up each morning with a carefully prepared plan to annoy teachers, upset adults, or earn another detention.
Things just seemed to happen, and before I knew what had happened, I was standing in front of someone explaining why it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Years later, there are plenty of things I could blame. Growing up without much money, struggling to learn, difficulty sitting still, not understanding how my brain worked.
There's a long list available if I want one. But the older I get, the less interested I am in finding something to blame. Because if I'm honest, I still do dumb sh*t.
The difference is that nowadays it usually ends with a strained muscle, a swollen ankle, or my wife asking – ‘What were you thinking?"
Which remains an excellent question.
The person I think about most is my dad. Now and then he'd look at me after another spectacularly poor decision and ask, "Why do you always do this?"
I never had an answer. I'd shrug my shoulders, look at the ground, and say nothing.
Fifty years later, I'd love to go back and answer him. The problem is that I still don't know.
If you ever figure it out, could you please let me know?
Asking for a former detention specialist who is still doing dumb sh*t!
Let’s talk!
I Was A Detention Specialist.