Some Rules Can Be Broken

Posted on October 7, 2023 by JimS

By Elizabeth Sánchez
Student at Kapi’olani Community College
University of Hawai’i


It was 2008, and my family had just endured the move to Virginia from Mississippi. After a month of attending our new schools, my brother and I were finally getting comfortable with this new environment. It was a day that petered on the edge of summer and autumn. The day was balmy, but the breeze carried the promise of winter, and the leaves were tinged with vibrant scarlet and citrine not seen among the muddy oranges of Mississippi flora. More importantly, it was the day I learned that some rules could be broken.

I never expected to be pulled out of class only ten minutes before we were released. I turned toward my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Flint, in confusion. I did not have a doctor’s appointment today. Even with my backpack already containing my homework that day, I still hesitated to move. I had severely sprained my right ankle three weeks prior and did not want to move unless necessary. Couldn’t she wait a bit longer?

Mr. Flint repeated what he said when he saw my bewildered expression, “Go on. Your mom is waiting for you.” He wore a laxed smile as if it were an everyday occurrence that one of his students left his class only minutes before the final bell. I grabbed my crutches. One of my classmates followed me while carrying my L.L. Bean backpack. It was a baby blue roller backpack with eggplant-colored flowers that I had begged my mom to get me before school started that year. As I hobbled out of the classroom, I could feel a sinking sensation in my stomach; something was wrong. I clambered down the hallway, rode down the elevator, and passed the koi pond my elementary school had at the base of the main stairwell.

Just outside the office was my mom. She had a clouded look that hid how furious she was. “Let’s go. I have to pick up your brother,” she said tersely as my classmate passed her my backpack and returned to Mr. Flint’s classroom. The pit in my stomach grew more pronounced. My brother took the bus to and from school. Why would he need Mom to pick him up? I followed my mom mutely and kept up with her brisk pace. I loaded my things into our nimbus grey 2009 Honda Pilot with tan leather interiors and sat down in the seat behind my mom. Radio Disney was quietly playing to cut through the otherwise thick silence. What was usually a twenty-minute drive felt like only half that. I was eager to get down to the bottom of the mystery. Not long before, we had pulled up to the entrance to Hayfield High School, where my brother, José, was attending ninth grade. The campus was empty, save for a few faculty cars, since his school finished classes before mine.

The shadow on my mom’s face grew darker as she said, “Wait here.” She quickly left the car, closing the door with barely enough time to squeeze her purse through the door, and powerwalked to the main entrance. What was really fifteen minutes felt like an eternity, and someone exited the building. It was my brother. His lanky body slinked towards the car with his left hand holding a bag filled with ice over his eye. Oh. I could already tell by the storm brewing in his uncovered hickory iris that he did not want to talk, so we waited silently after he settled into the passenger seat. Shortly afterward, my mom returned. It seemed like a minuscule weight was taken off her shoulders, but her face still held the fury of a mama bear protecting her cubs. It was not until that evening, after my brother went to bed, that I was told what happened. My mom and I sat in our living room on the ‘90s-styled, chamoisee cloth-upholstered couch.

Living room of our townhouse in Virginia. Taken by José E. Sanchez. 18 May 2009.

“Your brother was spit on by a known bully in the school. When the bully turned to ‘wipe off’ his spit, he punched your brother,” my mom explained. While useful, that information did not clear anything up. If my brother was the one that got punched, why did he look like he was in trouble? After asking my mom, she sighed and said, “Your brother got suspended for a week because he fought back.” My eyes widened.

“Does this mean he’s getting grounded, too?” I blurted out.

My mom reeled back as if I had asked a ridiculous question, “Now I’m only going to say this once: If someone is mean to you, stand your ground. If they punch you, punch back. They will never stop unless you stand up for yourself.”

“But wouldn’t I get in trouble like José?” I queried.

“Not if you don’t start it. I don’t care what the school says. If you say you were defending yourself, you defended yourself, and I will not punish you after the school already has,” my mom promised. Her eyes never strayed from mine.

This came from the woman who scolded us when we put as much as a toe out of line in school. She told me I could break one of the school rules to defend myself. I was taken aback. Until that point in my life, I was always told there was zero tolerance for violence in schools. My mom encouraged me to break that rule to ensure my safety. I learned that it is permissible to break the rules in certain circumstances. Instead of letting the bully continue, she wanted me to resolve it as peacefully as I could before it came to physical blows. If those were unavoidable, actions would have to speak louder than words. This lesson stayed with me throughout my elementary and high school career. It was essential when I became the victim of bullying and had to stand up for myself when teachers looked the other way.

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