Shame Before the Internet

Being a child of the 80s, I grew up in a time before constant surveillance. Although, just because I have a clean criminal record, doesn’t mean I didn’t have my grubby little mitts into some nefarious behavior. But kids my age were lucky to not see it end up on the internet within minutes. At worst, your hijinks would end up as a quote in an AOL profile instead of trending nationally with a clever hashtag and a screenshot of your unassuming face, causing instant shame.

Back in the old days, your humiliation would have to build slowly as more and more people found out about what you did. We all have felt the cold pang of dreaded anticipation of showing up to school or work after some particularly heinous incident. Maybe you got in a fight at the park or maybe you split your pants at the mall and walked around for hours before noticing. In my case the worst instance of being instantly embarrassed by my own actions, occurred in a moment of destructive catharsis.

My senior year of high school comes back to me as a blur of pastel blue, one-shoulder tank tops while an Evanescence CD on anti-skip echoes in the background. Trying to make it to the end of the year with my future looming in the distance, I lived in a time full of possibility and uncertainty. I couldn’t wait to leave it all behind and move on to the next phase and it seemed like I wasn’t the only one. Anticipation was heavy in the crowded hallway air and when my class finally graduated in 2003, we took a lot with us. We took the largest class (just shy of 300 if I remember correctly), some truly gifted teachers that decided to retire along with us, and the high school building itself.

See, while we were on the long march toward adulthood, a new and improved high school was being built behind ours. We were to be the last group of students to graduate from the “old” high school.

As one of my last acts as a high school student, I performed in the famous Shakespearean play A Comedy of Errors. It was the very last play performed in the “old” high school’s auditorium and as a result, there were many nights during breaks in rehearsals that I walked around the campus and on the previous five years. On Saturdays, we would have rehearsal and the school would be almost entirely empty aside from us “theater kids.” During a break in activities, I wandered aimlessly out of the auditorium and ended up standing at the doors to the gymnasium. I hadn’t been in there much when I didn’t have to be. I wasn’t much for sports which is just another way of saying I had no athletic ability or coordination. Surely, much to my father’s disappointment, I tried to avoid being in the gym at all costs. It represented that whole masculine, jockish douche-baggery that I hated but was secretly envious of. I wasn’t on a team, I’d never made a game winning score, and I certainly had little to no pep to bring to a rally. The gymnasium represented everything I never wanted to be and everything I secretly was jealous of. It was a cathedral that had been built for the worship of all the things I wanted to get away from.

With a Fruitopia vending machine droning behind me, I pushed my way through the doors into the seemingly abandoned field house. My eyes struggled to adjust, and I could barely make out the bleachers in the murkiness of the dark. I couldn’t hear anything but the constant hum of the vents overhead, while I replayed the unwanted memories that took place in that gym. The classes, the running, the lawlessness that comes from one teacher watching 35 kids in an open gym, all of it rushed back to me and I was hit with a moment of inspiration. I realized that I was one of the last people to ever be in that field house. Within weeks it would be turned into rubble and become something only thought about when looking through a yearbook. So, I thought to myself, how can I make a mark on this place that would help me balance out the injustices I felt when I was here? How can I disrespect this place without anyone ever knowing that I was responsible? The “getting-away-with-it” part was easy. I was there by myself and there were no cameras, so what could I do? I decided I was going to relieve myself right there next to the basketball court. It was all I could come up with at the time, but it seemed like such a brave and solid decision. There were no downsides, I was going to get my revenge and it would be dried by the following Monday, it was supposed to be a victimless crime. I convinced myself easily and began urinating on the floor.

The splashes were way more audible than I realized, and I was forcing it out as hard as I could, so I could get out of there and go back to rehearsal before anyone came looking for me and found me “making a statement” on the floor. That’s when I heard something else in the darkness.

“Hey!” a voice shouted from further into the pitch-blackness. “What are you doing?”

I thought the gym was empty! I thought I was alone. I listened so hard for any signs of life but hadn’t managed to let my eyes adjust enough to efficiently scan the room. I panicked and pulled my jeans up before I was finished and bolted out of there. I ran to the nearest rest room to finish up and assess the damage. In my efforts to run away from the scene of the crime, I had also managed to visibly wet my pants. The denim had darkened to look like I was wearing a damp cod piece underneath. There was going to be no way to play this off without anyone knowing, I was about to go stand on stage in front of dozens of people. Not to mention, someone had just seen me pissing on the floor in the gym and I had no idea who they were or if they knew who I was. My scalp tingled with embarrassment as I tried to figure out how to cover up the obvious mishap I’d had in my dungarees. I ran back into the auditorium and found some duct tape on the floor of the stage. I pulled it off and slapped it on the front of my pants as if wearing metallic cup outside my pants. At best, it would distract and cover my discretions and at worst it would be good for a laugh and hopefully be passed off as another one of my “crazy antics.”

Our break was nearing an end when I went outside to join the rest of the cast. My silver crotch accessory in full-view as pretended nothing was different about me. I laughed openly about my Shakespearean costume design and hoped I was in the clear, and I seemed like I might be until we got some visitors. A small group of underclassmen rode up to the group of us on their bikes. One of them, the younger brother of one of the leads in the cast, pulls up to me and looks at my duct tape.

“Are you wearing that because you pissed your pants?” he asked with a straightforward attitude that I hated in that moment. I tried to act as though I had no idea what he was talking about, but the jig was up. The group of the boys were laughing as I stuttered my excuse about having a funny costume. Meanwhile, I could feel the members of the cast that were next to me shrinking away as my face flushed red. This is what going viral looks like in real life. The little brother proceeded to tell me how they just saw me come into the field house, start pissing, and run away when they called out. They were sitting on the bleachers for the entire event. There was nothing I could do or say. I had been caught doing something dumb and even worse immediately paid the price. I had gone from 0 views, to a dozen in a matter of a few minutes. At that rate, everyone in the world was going to find out before I got handed my diploma. In fact, what would the school do if it heard about my excursion? Would it cancel weekend rehearsals for the future? Or would it require a password to enter the gym? Would they keep me from graduating?

These were the thoughts that raced through my head in the aftermath of being caught with my pants down… literally. I imagined my entire life exploding all because of getting caught doing something stupid. Of course, the real ending to this story is that nothing happened. Nothing scarring, anyway. Because this was before the age of internet infamy, I was able to err and not have it documented for everyone to see for the rest of time. It may not have been the most mature thing to do, but at least it won’t live on, racking up views, or god forbid becoming a meme. Nowadays, we are all under such scrutiny that a simple moment of impulsivity can be our downfall. People lose their jobs, friends, and their place in the community over such stupid instances that are looped over and again.

Embarrassment and shame are the mild consequences of idiocy. There is an epidemic of children building a social media presence online before they fully understand their actions. These kids get into feuds with complete strangers across the world and get cyber bullied to the point of suicide over things that would have been considered minuscule by the standards held 15 years ago. Things blow over differently now. In the past, you just had to wait and stick it out and eventually life would go back to normal. Sure, people could whisper about your deeds behind your back, maybe even point at you in the lunch line. At least no one can pull it up on their phone and make me relive it all over again. No. Reliving painful stuff is my job for when it’s 3:00 AM and I can’t sleep. Today, things don’t blow over as much as they get replaced by the next mortifying clip that someone decides to upload all over the web to remain as a small digital shrine to stupidity.

Personally, I would rather be known as the guy who was rumored to have tinkled on the floor years ago versus #FatKidGymTinkle.