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In the haze of memories...
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20 September 2002
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I am a schoolteacher. Every day I am up in front of those kids effecting them in some way, hopefully in good ways. I matter. The kids look to me for guidance and discipline. They know the rules; they know the consequences for breaking the rules. There’s a systematic flow to each of the days.
Usually the flow is by way of utter chaos, but that is another story. Heh.
When I am up in front of the kids, I am often struck with the thought of Oh my gosh! How did I get here? Am I really responsible for the education of each of these eight-year-olds? As I am speaking, I am nearly in a state of shock as I realize that the answers to the questions. Truly, every day I am completely and utterly amazed at the gift that has been given to me by the parents of my students.
It also gives me opportunity to think about all the things that I remember from my own school days – the teachers, the activities, and the field trips. When I think back to my first days of school, it’s always the teachers that I remember.
In kindergarten, I had Mrs. Cook. She used to invite us to the corner carpet and we’d sing songs. We’d sing about where Thumbkin was. Little Bunny Fufu would dance across the air as we all curled our fingers into little rabbit ears.
I also remember sitting at the big square table with a little art project set before us. I used to watch the little boy next to me, Keith, eat paste. Remember those round white jars with the orange tops that had the paste stick attached to the lid? He’d lift that paste stick and set it right to his tongue and lick off a big glop of paste. Mmmmm . . . How tasty that must have been! (Of course, I put glue on my hand so that I could peel it off. I was just as twisted!) I was in love with that boy. Wonder what he’s doing now?
Unfortunately, I have a Swiss-cheese memory when it comes to my school days (that means the ol’ memory has lots of holes in it). There are little bits and pieces that I remember . . . here and there. For instance, I remember being in a Christian school when I was in first through third grades. My first week at the school (mid-year) I had forgotten my books at home. Why or how did I do that? I don’t know, I just did. Apparently I must have done it before because I was sent out to the hall and moments later the teacher arrived with a paddle in hand. I wouldn’t possibly receive a paddling if it had been the first time, right? Well, I did indeed get paddled. I cried and felt humiliated when I returned to the class. Yep, that is a big memory. No holes in that (except that I don’t remember if it was the first time).
Same school a year later. It had snowed and snowed over the weekend, so when we arrived at school, there were huge “mountains” of snow along the playground. Oh yeah, I quickly became the Queen of the Mountain and held that title all winter long. I am not to be messed with me, you see! I am woman. Hear me roar! That same year I would reign over tetherball, as well.
Fast-forward a year. I remember walking out to recess and seeing my brother sitting there with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, a senior girl cutting his hair. That was interesting, to say the least. He was so cute. The girls probably fought over who was going to cut his hair. It would mean actually touching him . . . a lot. Heh. Later that year we would be pulled from the school. Apparently the school did not appreciate when my mother wrote a note to the office saying, “Some dummie made my daughter go out into the frigid, snowy weather without pants to cover her legs.” You see, girls were not allowed to wear pants, and during those years Wisconsin winters were completely frigid and snow-filled. I didn’t have any pants to cover my legs, and Mom didn’t appreciate the fact that they forced me to go outside anyway. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to say, and they kindly asked us to never step foot in that school again.
We kids cheered all the way home that day.
My fourth-grade year was a blur. The only thing that I remember from that year was improving my penmanship. My teacher was a friend of my grandfather’s. She and her (ex) husband had played bluegrass music with my grandpa and his gang. I wanted desperately to impress her. I had atrocious penmanship. That was the year that I changed that. I would practice and practice, writing so slowly, drawing out each and every stroke with the perfection of a nine-year-old. I soon began to get glorious praises from my teacher. Oh my! Was there anything better than getting verbal praise from a teacher? In front of the whole class? I began receiving little certificates for outstanding penmanship. What used to be sloppy cursive soon became beautiful cursive. I still write very neatly (except when I am in a hurry, and people still don’t consider my sloppy to actually be sloppy). In fact, when I teach cursive, I use myself as an example and tell them that taking one’s time and doing it correctly will reap many rewards. They will not only receive verbal praise and little certificates for outstanding penmanship, but they will feel proud for the beautiful work that they do.
Elementary school is a big, hazy fog in my mind. Little blips of reality flit about every once in awhile. Sometimes I wonder if what I am seeing in my head is a memory or if it’s something that really did happen. I remember playing on the huge playground. I remember sledding down the big hill during the winter on roll-up sleds that we’d keep in our little lockers. I remember heading to the girl’s bathroom (the boys, too) for tornado drills. I remember running around the playground, being chased by little boys. Why oh why did I have to be so fast? Why did I outrun them? I should have let them catch me. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Golden, who became my motivation to be a teacher. She used to read us stories every day and use voices as she read. She brought the stories alive for us. She made them exciting. She made me want to read all the time. I remember my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Madison, not letting me use the restroom and how I wet my little pants right there in the classroom and how my parents reamed her out for that. Yikes! I never again had to ask twice to use the bathroom.
All these memories that I have of my own school days makes me more sympathetic towards the students that I have and the teachers that I once had. I learned what not to do from some teachers and what to do from others. I never say no to a student when they ask to go to the bathroom, but there are consequences for using my time for something they should have done during their time. However, no one is going to wet his or her pants in my class! I read to my children every day (almost every day), and I use voices to bring the stories alive. I try to find ways to encourage all the kids to read, sometimes taking the whole year to try to find the perfect book or series for certain students.
I have a mixture of good memories and bad memories of school, as most kids do probably. I just want to be a part of the good memories for my students. I want them to look fondly back at third grade and smile. I want them to tell their kids about their third-grade teacher Miss H. and how she used to sing opera to them when things would get a little tense or to gather the students’ attention. How she used to read to them and use crazy voices for the characters. I want the students to have fun while they are learning. I want them to understand that reading and writing can be enjoyable.
We all have memories of school, and my students will have them, too. I am excited to part of those.
This has been a collaboration for Random Acts of Journaling - September 2002
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