School Vaccinations and the Fourth-Grade Arm Wrestling Championship
Back in the 1960s, some vaccinations happened at school. I have a vivid memory of my first experience with this. We were completely unsuspecting, unprepared for what was about to happen.
Miss Kenealy lined us up and marched us to the cafeteria. We were told to stand in a straight line and roll up our left sleeves, exposing our arms. Still, we remained clueless—after all, a kind-looking nurse stood at the front of the line. Then, it happened.
“Step forward. Two steps. Stop.”
That put each of us directly in front of the nurse for a few seconds. Before we knew what was happening, she pressed a massive, gun-shaped device against our arms. It was fast. It hurt. And then—just like that—it was over. The silver lining? We got the rest of the day to read and play in class.
They told us it was for our own good. Try convincing a room full of fourth graders of that!
Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m a firm believer in science and modern medicine. But back then? That didn’t feel like science. That felt like an ambush. Looking back over fifty years, I know those vaccines kept me safe, and I fully support using science to protect ourselves. But at the time, my only complaint was that it hurt—and the nurse had tricked us with that warm, friendly smile. We didn’t know a smile could hide such a sinister plan.
When I hear today’s debates about vaccines, I can’t help but shake my head and smile. It’s frustrating to see people willing to risk their children’s health for a political statement. The funniest part? The whole process back then didn’t even use needles. It was done with air pressure, which, as an engineering teacher, I still find fascinating.
The Fourth-Grade Arm Wrestling Championship
Another great fourth-grade memory? The arm wrestling championship.
I loved growing up in a time when competition was encouraged, and our teachers handled it well. Since the gym was being used for something else, the tournament was held in the cafeteria. We had a boys’ champion and a girls’ champion.
In the early rounds, I got lucky and faced some easy opponents. Before I knew it, I was in the finals against Rudolph—the strongest kid in our grade. I braced myself for a tough match. But to my surprise, I beat him quickly and without much effort. I was thrilled.
Rudolph, however, was not. He immediately protested, claiming it wasn’t fair because he was left-handed, and we had all competed using our right hands. The teacher, glancing at the clock, ruled that we had to stick with right-handed matches since that’s what the majority had used.
That was the first time I truly understood the difference between equality and equity.
At lunch, Rudolph was still fuming, so we decided to settle things once and for all—we
arm-wrestled left-handed. This time, he crushed me effortlessly. We agreed: he was the left-handed champion, and I was the right-handed champion.
Two ten-year-old kids had just given our classmates a lesson in fairness—one that stuck with me far longer than the tournament itself.
As a teacher, I started my career focused on equality. But over the years, I came to understand the deeper importance of equity. And all these years later, I still think back to that lunchroom lesson with a smile.