That first day, clutching my new pencil box, I rushed into my first grade classroom. The teacher sure didn't look like Miss Dingee - she was old! (In reality she was probably 35 which we all know is NOT OLD.) Mrs. Hawkins had put our names on a desk. We each had an assigned desk. The desk was slanted and opened up - you could keep your pencil box and papers inside. I had never seen such a miraculous thing before. Boy, did I love opening and closing that desk. She showed us the cloak room - that is a really big closet and we each had our very own hook and a little shelf for lunch pails. I knew that I was going to love being in the first grade. And then - I didn't.
Why am I telling your this? Today I went to a hoolie - an Irish get together complete with bagpipes, singing and lots of dancing. It was a howling hoot and lots of fun except for the time a group of women started remembering the teachers who scarred them for life. A successful 31 year old started the riff, rant and rag by telling the tale of the middle school teacher who told her to quit school when she was 16 because she was too stupid to be anything. What a swell thing to tell a kid with a learning disability. Luckily, she had a mom who was a true advocate and she was switched out of that class. It took a lot for her to get over being not only a different style of learner but "too stupid to be anything". She still remembers the time and place of that crack. Then there was the story of a student being in a hall way walking behind two members of the teaching profession to hear one of them go off on what a horrible kid she was. Now, she hadn't known she was a horrible kid until she overheard the conversation. Don't teachers realize that little people do listen?
All eyes turned to me - was I the only one who hadn't been scared by some teacher who probably shouldn't have been teaching? Gulp, how could I tell the tale of Mrs. Hawkins. The thought of her and IT made me want to run in the cloak room and hide.
The first few months of first grade had gone along without any drama. Mrs. Hawkins wasn't the most entertaining of teachers but I was in the blue bird reading group and got to become very familiar with good old Dick and Jane. We pretty much did everything as a group. Lined up and marched to the cafeteria. Lined up and marched to the rest rooms. Lined up and marched to the hall way to practice leaning on the wall with our arms over our heads in case the big bomb dropped. All that togetherness was swell unless you have to go to the bathroom when it wasn't scheduled. You had to raise your hand and ask permission to make a run down the hall. If we were doing something really important for our six year old brains than we had to wait until that very important task was done. One day that cute little girl in the picture - me - raised her hand. Mrs. Hawkins rolled her eyes and asked "what?"
"I need to go to the bathroom please." "No. This is important." I crossed my skinny little legs, clutched the side of my chair and figured I could wait it out. When I knew I couldn't wait another second, I raised my scrawny little arm again. "What," she barked. "Please can I go to the bathroom." " I told you no. Just wait."
And then it happened - first a little dribble, then a whoosh of liquid was racing down my chair and under my desk. The jeers, laughter and "baby" taunts surrounded me. I wanted to lift up the top of my desk and crawl inside but my skirt was dripping wet, even my socks were wet. Mrs. Hawkins stormed down the aisle, took me by the arm and tossed me in the cloak room and shut the door. (When you were "not behaving" you got stowed away in the cloak room.) I don't know who went and got her but the school nurse appeared and took me to her office. Little drips followed us down the hall way. Someone must have called my mom because she raced in with clean clothes. I didn't want the clothes, I just wanted to go home. The nurse and my mom said I had to back to class. I had just had an accident and everyone understood. "No", I screamed, "they laughed at me and Mrs. Hawkins put me in the black closet." They kept insisting and then well - I don't remember if I went back or not - I think it was a vodka-less blackout. I don't remember much more about the first grade except that I hated it and hated school. Luckily for me my second grade teacher restored my love for learning - now what was her name? Why do we remember the wicked ones and not the nice ones?
Years later, I was president of the school board in the town I grew up in. The superintendent announced at a board meeting that a staff member was retiring and that the board president usually went to the party and gave the teacher a gift. I said I would be delighted to go and asked who was retiring. He replied, "Mrs. Hawkins". I must have turned 50 shades of gray and sputtered, "I'm busy". "I didn't tell you when it was." "It doesn't matter that bitch can burn in hell before I would honor her at a retirement dinner". Did I just say out loud "that bitch can burn in hell". I think I did - damn her she embarrassed me again! I then regaled the board with my little first grade accident tale - pointing out the pain, shame and hate of school that accident brought on. No, I did not cave and go to her retirement dinner. Payback often comes when you least expect it.
The Irish music at the hoolie was getting louder and no one wanted to tell more dastardly teacher tales anyway so the ranting stopped. As I moved towards the laughter, I got a quick flash of Mrs. Hawkin's face and wondered if she knew she was remembered for all the wrong reasons?
1 comment:
I remember a few bad teachers and many who seemed to just go through the motions but in many cases the bad ones are usually mitigated by one special one. If only I could remember her name.
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