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Your Permanent Record
Those of us of a certain age have a “Permanent Record” that has haunted us all of our live
s. Few of us have actually seen our Permanent Record, but we know it is out there—somewhere. We are keenly aware that someone is going to take a gander at that record and make us pay the piper at the appropriate time.
We don’t know where the Permanent Records are kept. But we know it is unlikely we will ever be able to see them—let alone correct the record if there is a mistake.
Most of us first heard of our Permanent Record from either a teacher or principal. Some, directly from our parents.
Though we don’t know all that it contains, we do know that our grammar school grades are recorded there and still carry heavy weight.
As onerous as the grades are, however, it’s the recordation of social transgressions that we fear most.
I think the first entry on my own Permanent Record occurred early one November. Mrs. Talainian was asking us to raise our hands if we had anything to say. She had an extremely high-pitched, almost whiney voice. Steen Stanke was called upon. “Steen, do you have anything to share?”
I have no idea what possessed me, but I imitated her voice exactly, raising it a few octaves for comedic effect. Mocking a teacher was frowned upon in those days, and I was marched down to the principal’s office for appropriate disciplinary action.
Mr. Brown, the principal, remarked that I was the first kindergartener ever to have been sent to his office for disciplinary purposes.
A cloud of shame hung over me as he informed me that not only would I be denied the privilege of watching the Thanksgiving Day “Slide Strip” (remember those?), but that my transgressions would go on my Permanent Record.
I was crestfallen.
I kept my nose clean until a few months later, when we were playing on the jungle gym out on the playground. A classmate, whose name escapes me now, was hanging upside down and a dime and a penny fell out of her jeans onto the wood chips below.
Alan and I picked up the loot, made our way to the store, and bought two packs of baseball cards (a nickel apiece), and one piece of bubble gum, which we split.
Of course, I couldn’t bear the burden of our sin, so I told my mother when I got home. Alas, she was duty-bound to inform me that this latest transgression was headed for my Permanent Record.
Though I returned the 11 cents, my record was indelibly tarnished.
That was a bad year for me. Not long afterwards, Steven and I climbed up on an enormous yellow road grader parked near our street. We sat in the seat and pretended to drive. How were we to know that if one pushed that black button hard enough a sound like rolling thunder would emerge and the engine would actually start up?
When the local gendarmes came, they took us down and showed us the jail (it was more of a metal lattice rather than the parallel bars we’d seen in the westerns on TV). Meant to scare us, it didn’t carry half the weight of watching them inscribe our deed in our Permanent Record.
I had not yet seen seven summers, and the entries were piling up.
The misprisions added up over the years and always seemed to center around the act of cocking one’s arm and throwing projectiles at either moving vehicles or objects that would break, shatter, or splat if one’s aim were true.
Dirt clods, rocks, lemons, plumbs, and eggs all had an irresistible lure—and all were the source of dreaded entries into that ominous tome.
It was as if elderly neighbors were secret agents for the keepers of the Permanent Record. They were always calling our parents, teachers, or the police. Escaping over backyard fences and through flower beds elicited more phone calls—and more entries, no doubt.
Thick as my record was becoming, it took a real dive in 6th grade, when some fool put thumb tacks on Mrs. Vance’s chair. Women wore girdles back then. She was expected to pop up with an aptly surprised expression, as the teacher did in The Little Rascals when Spanky did the same thing—However, nothing happened.
When she stood up and turned to write on the black board, all the tacks were stuck in her girdle. Our insuppressible laughter was not funny to her.
The trip to Mr. Grazzette’s room for a session with the Pow Pow (the paddle they used to smack us with back in the day), was nothing compared to the size of the entry that would go in that Permanent Record.
In high school, for anyone even remotely thinking about going to college, the most oft asked question regarding weekly quizzes was “Will this go on my Permanent Record?” Parking tickets (50 cents for a meter violation on Main), tardies, and pantsing underclassmen constituted automatic entries.
It goes without saying that we all prayed fervently that Father Walsh was not reporting our “impure thoughts”, uttered in confession, to the keepers of that cursed Record.
I could bore you with other dastardly deeds (hiding in the gravel pits and tossing tomatoes and eggs at the cops on Halloween comes to mind), but who needs to hear of another’s transgressions when each of us has his own Permanent Record to deal with?
Besides, even writing about this taboo subject will probably go in my Permanent Record. And I can ill afford even one more entry.
Published in General
One’s permanent record does indeed exist, but it does not all exist in one place.
It is the sum total of all one’s interactions with the world. It is recorded on bits of paper, bits of silicon, and bits of other people’s brain matter.
The only place it exists in total is on God’s ledger.
My permanent record started with the first day in kindergarten. Don’t know when or how it was developed but I have an extraordinary sense of “fair play.” We were lined up for some reason, and as each child moved forward we were handed something, don’t remember what. A child before me had left a puddle on the floor and about the time I neared the head of the line, the teacher, Mrs. Cop, her actual name, noticed the puddle. Without further investigation or even asking, she accused me of the deed. I protested, and she grabbed my arm, whereupon I kicked her in the shin and ran out of the room. I went home and refused to return for nearly 2 weeks. My behavior has not improved much in the ensuing 70 years. No longer use my feet, but the mouth works before the brain at times.
When I “graduated” from middle school to attend high school, my district changed the rules to allow high schools to see the disciplinary records of middle schools. I’m fairly sure I had a hand in that.
Where’s the Like button for threads (as opposed to comments)? I thought that was going to be one of 2.0’s signature improvements.
Everyone can see My permanent record; just search Me in public records.
Hilarious! Brings back simpler times. I’d give anything for a copy of my Permanent Record, just to recollect the many highlights that I’ve probably forgotten.
Another amusing point: The Permanent Record threat didn’t seem to actually have a great deal of deterrent power, did it. Maybe, that’s why we don’t use that tactic on our own kids.
It’s funny you mention this. I’m applying for a fellowship and they asked to see my college transcripts. I haven’t even *thought* about my transcripts since the late 1990s and I’m not even sure I’ve ever seen them.
Suddenly I’m wondering what’s on them. Half of me doesn’t even want to know or be forced to remember.
At least mine doesn’t include any arrests. Not that it shouldn’t just that it doesn’t.
I suspect that the permanent record is now in the keeping of federal government and its various associated agencies. To be used by various political operatives when and as needed.
Not sure exactly why we don’t use it on our kids. It may be that “permanent record” may have been code for “reputation.” Remember once we were scolded for doing things that would “ruin our reputation” (promiscuity, drinking, getting arrested etc)–in other words stuff that would bring shame to the family name. The family name doesn’t seem to mean much any more. This may or may not be a good thing. We do know that Ajax was always introduced as “son of Telemon” (as were his contemporaries) and that Solon told Croesus that Tellus was happier than Croseus, because “….. (he) died upon the field most gallantly. The Athenians gave him a public funeral on the spot where he fell, and paid him the highest honors.” In other words, how you “go out”–what your reputation is amongst your peers, determines how happy you are. Ergo: if you have a bad reputation, a “poor” permanent record, you won’t die happy. Just a thought
The HR department for my current role insisted that I put my high school on my application. Small company HR department was so union-phobic that they even made executives go through these stupid hoops.
If the company hadn’t been paying for a relo back to New England to be closer to both of our families I would have ended the interview process and gotten back on a plane home.
The last company I was contracting with REQUIRED my high school and college transcripts as a condition of employment. I am in my 50s and could not see why 30+ year old documents were relevant but it was made clear no transcripts no job.
The end customer (not sure if you work through a third-party)? If so, they sound like a treat.
I used to work independent but those days are pretty much over. Anymore you can not get a gig without going through at least one of the major consulting firms. If I remember correctly there were 3 consulting firms I was working through before the final client, two of which I never met but still they were getting a piece of my rate. I always find it funny that I am considered valuable resource to companies that I have never one employee of or been to their office. In this case I do not know which company or if the client required the transcripts.