Shame on Me

It’s been a while since I’ve really screwed up.

Once, when I was in the seventh grade, my class built a clothes trunk to donate to our school’s annual auction. I say “built” but I mean “asked one of our parents to build.” It wasn’t much of a choice, really. One of the kid’s dads was a carpenter.

After it was built, our teacher had the chest brought in to class so we could admire our handiwork. Then she asked us to sign it. Just like real artists. One by one, we went to the front of the class, and signed it with a thick black sharpie. Before we’d signed it, a friend of mine leaned over and said, “I dare you to sign it ‘Da Pimp.’” So, when I approached the chest, after taking a moment to admire my creation, I signed Da Pimp.

Once we’d finished, a few teachers took the chest away to be prepared for the auction. I thought I was in the clear. There’s no way they’d see it among the 30 names in in the chest. Especially with only minutes remaining in the school day. Moments later, Mr. McCoy came in. “Nobody’s leaving until we figure out who signed Da Pimp.”

For a minute, I thought if I keep my mouth shut, they’ll never know. And that might have been true. The only one who knew I’d done it was the friend who suggested I do it. He was a security risk. A few minutes alone with him and a baseball bat might clear that up. But then I experienced shame. The shame of failing my teachers. The shame of being the sole reason all my friends—including the one who gave me the idea—were being held after the closing bell was me.

Some people sit with shame for too long. They dwell in it because they don’t want or are too afraid to atone for whatever they’ve done. That day in seventh grade, I learned that shame can be a powerful impetus for change. It can push us to make amends with whomever we hurt and to be welcomed back into our communities. I could only take a few minutes before I fessed up.

“If it’s a pimp you’re looking for, look no further.”

“Everyone can go,” McCoy said, “except you, LeDonne.”