School Daze

Why, you might ask, would someone who loves to learn as much as I always have, hate first grade so much? But I despised it.

I went to 6 schools in my 12 years, 4 of them in the first 5 grades. But that didn't affect first grade, of course. I suppose I was too young emotionally to handle the full days, though. Usually children begin with half-days in Kindergarten, and so far I was no exception. But my afternoon Kindergarten classes lasted a grand total of 2 weeks. Ten sleepy afternoons, following swimming lessons, a few teenage girls attempted to acquaint my wide-eyed classmates and me with the foreign concepts of sitting quietly in our chairs until called upon, raising our hands to speak, and writing our names on simple coloring pages. There may also have been singing. I only wanted a nap. Then, at the tender age of 5, I began the full days of first grade. But the work was no problem. Upon hearing that I was to go to school, I insisted on being taught to read. I felt it would be the height of embarrassment to show up at school unable even to read. I was highly motivated - my mother says I learned by osmosis.

Unfortunately being able to read actually became an obstacle to my happiness in school, however, because the other kids were constantly asking me questions, for which answers I would incur the wrath of the teacher. And the teacher was my real problem. I was positively terrified of her. In this particular school there were known to be 2 first grade teachers - the nice one and the mean one. In what was to become an unfortunate pattern in my school life, I got the mean one. I was only slightly apprehensive because I tend to get along easily with people and I felt perhaps she'd been misunderstood. Alas, she had not.

I can't honestly say I was singled out for her sharp words. I don't recall her liking any of us. We all got in trouble if we talked; but it didn't matter why. When confused classmates whispered desperate pleas for help and I tried to explain something, we both were called down sharply. Finally I learned to put my head on my desk when I had completed my work, shutting out the whispers and the tugs on my shirtsleeves.

The constantly sour attitude and sharp rebukes made me nervous enough, but had it ended there I might have adjusted. One day something occurred that cemented my fear and made every day an anticipation of disaster. We were finally at lunch, to be followed by recess - every child's favorite part of the school day. My friend and I were at the back of the lunchline, which was very long and very slow, and we began looking around us, and fell to daydreaming. Something brought my eyes back around to my friend, and with a start I realized the line had long since left us behind and we were standing alone near the door we came in at. "Go!" I commanded my friend, giving her a little push to emphasize my words.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing how far back we were, and she hurried forward. As I lifted my foot to follow her, I was suddenly snatched up by both shoulders and shaken very hard. My head flew back and forth, tender baby teeth clashing together, feeling much like I imagine a field mouse must when an owl snatches it from the ground. As the violence of the shaking diminished, I could see the angry face of my teacher close to my own frightened one. "Don't push people," she screamed. Eyes wide with shock, I attempted to sputter out an explanation. Unfortunately I began with the words, "I wasn't-" and before I could get another word out, the shaking began again, much harder than before, as she yelled furiously that I was not to lie to her! "Ok," I gasped and she released me. I stumbled forward to get my lunch, stunned and rattled. Leaving as quickly as I could to go to recess, I discovered that the treasured plaything I had carefully placed in the toy cubby had been absconded with. Discouraged and unhappy, but afraid to complain, I went and sat under a tree. My mother was furious when I told her what had happened, and she tried in vain to get me transferred to the other class. She did discover that my teacher was very ill and that's why she was so tense.

Following closely on the heels of this incident was another, adding to the feeling of uneasiness because of the unnerving quality of it. I was sitting in reading circle with the sun streaming in, a little sleepy with the dull business of listening to other first graders stammer out their reading lesson. Suddenly the quiet was shattered by a shy, timid girl, who leaped to her feet, screaming. She danced frantically, slapping at herself and emitting little shrieks while we all watched in horrified fascination. The teacher rushed to the girl's side, trying to discover the problem. Just as she reached her, the girl burst in to tears and the teacher hustled her out of the room. We all stared in amazement at one another, totally at a loss as to what had just occurred. We were later informed that the girl had been stung by a bee that got inside her sweater. This episode did not make me fear bees, but my fear of my teacher became a bit mythical as I associated her with the bizarre episode.

One weary, dreary Monday morning, I dragged unwillingly in to school, weighted down by a very large, heavy cast on my aching arm, shattered in 3 places in an unfortunate incident at the Jaycees picnic over the weekend. It was my right arm, too, so all the careful work I'd done so far in learning to write had been completely undone. When I arrived, it was not my teacher who waited for me. We had a substitute, a very pleasant looking lady named Mrs. Whited. She explained that our teacher was going to be out for some weeks due to surgery and recovery, and she, Mrs. Whited, would fill her place as best she could. While feeling sympathy for the sick teacher, I can't say I was sorry to have relief from the constant dread of the school day. Mrs. Whited was as pleasant as she looked and I thrived under her smile like a flower in the sun. She was patient with me when I had trouble doing my work because of my broken arm, and she laughed when she found that rather than raising my hand for attention, I was just resting my heavy cast on the back of my chair. We got along famously. The crowning touch was the school-wide Student of the Month competition. I craved going forward in assembly in front of the entire school to receive the certificate and accolades given to the favored student. But our teachers had to nominate us. I had given up hoping, so I was genuinely surprised when my name was called. I went forward, beaming, and saw my new favorite teacher beaming back. Not long after that our regular teacher returned. Everyone in the class mobbed her to say welcome back. Well, everyone except me. I was over with Mrs. Whited having a tearful farewell.

There wasn't much of the school year left by this time, and perhaps our teacher was feeling better after her surgery, because there were no more particular incidents. As long as we stayed silent, and didn't complain at recess about the bullies, things weren't too bad. We even had an art project one day, and I enjoyed it so much that I remember it still. The owl I made is preserved as magnificent in my memory, the actual work of art not having survived to contradict my visions of grandeur. The owl art project done on black paper was the single good memory I had with that first grade teacher. She was almost nice to me that day! I've had a fondness for owls ever since.

Swimming Lessons

I stood shivering in the morning sun, eagerly awaiting my turn to get in the pool. Would this be the day? Would I finally do it?
“Listen to your teacher, Tracie,” my mother reminded me as she went to sit with the other parents. My sister was already splashing in another section of the pool with her more advanced class. My teacher gave me some last minute instructions and then it was my turn! Swim cap firmly in place, I slipped into the cool, shallow water with a sense of nervous anticipation. Would I finally be able to swim to the other side of the pool without stopping?
My mother, who couldn’t swim, insisted on lessons at the age of five. My sister had begun her lessons in Madison, Indiana at a pool within sight of the Ohio River. Sometimes we heard the calliope of the Delta Queen, an opulent paddlewheel steamboat. We would all go running down to the banks of the river in our swimsuits to watch it go by. But by the time I was five, we lived in Florida. We often played in Lion’s Park. From the top of the giraffe ladder I could see children splashing in the public pool across the street. That’s where my mother signed me up for my swimming lessons.
On the first day, my teacher had me get in the shallow end. “Okay, now hold on to the edge of the pool and lie down in the water. Gently, now, just let the water hold you up!” The sensation of the cool water licking my sun-warmed skin in random patterns was delightful! “Okay, good. Now kick your legs!” my teacher instructed. This I did with vigor and abandon, until my teacher got my attention again and began teaching me the finer points of straight legs and flexible knees. I worked hard at making my legs into useful tools. “Legs close together,” my teacher said, and I pretended I was a mermaid.
“Great, Tracie. Now it’s time to put your face in the water!” she said with enthusiasm. I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. She taught me to hold my breath, turn my face from side to side, and breathe. I soon got the hang of it, still holding securely to the edge of the pool. This wasn’t so bad! At least as long as no one kicked or splashed too much, which made the water rock against me alarmingly. And then she was telling me to let go of the edge.
The moment of truth. Could I let go of the edge of the pool without sinking like a great, wet ball of fear straight to the bottom? With a good deal of coaxing from my patient teacher and the success of the other children giving me courage, I found that I could. I floated like a jellyfish for awhile. Then I began to learn to paddle.
The days flew by and the time for our final test came. I must swim from one side of the pool to the other without stopping. Swelled up with confidence in my hard won skills, I plunged in and started across, not listening to my teacher or anyone else. I got about a third of the way before realizing to my great surprise that I could go no further.
When my second turn came I was humbled and a little demoralized. This caused me to listen more closely, but secretly I was sure I couldn’t do it, so of course I couldn’t. I got about half way before I gave up. I felt I was letting everyone down. I didn’t care for the slightly contemptuous pity my sister offered!
The time came for a third try. I listened carefully to my teacher’s instructions. As I and all my butterflies slid into the water, I was aware that my swim cap was too tight, the rubber squeezing my head and tilting my eyes back slightly. I didn’t dare adjust it. If any of my hair escaped I’d have to get out of the pool. Soon it didn’t matter anyway. It was nearly my turn and I was listening to everyone screaming encouragement to the child in front of me. I noticed my mother, smiling sympathetically at me as only a mother can, and I resolved to see pride in her eyes when I was done. Then it was my turn.
As I breathed deeply, my teacher shouted a few last instructions. I slid down on my stomach into the water and began to swim. Sound dimmed as I concentrated on moving my arms in the prescribed manner, pulling myself through the water. Kick, kick, propel. Legs straight! Breathe, breathe, turn my head. Suddenly I touched the other side and sound burst back into my ears. People were cheering, rushing over to me, the sun was warm on my skin. I had done it! My sister was grinning at me, and my Mom looked - yes, proud!

(I thought now, while everyone yearns for spring, might be a good time to share this story about my childhood swimming lessons. Hopefully this will remind you there are warmer days to come!)

Dance Lessons (True Story Time)

Christmas morning! After all the presents had been opened and the candy eaten, Mom told Leslie and me that we had one more gift. "You are going to begin dance lessons," she said.
“Dance lessons!” squealed Leslie. “Ballet?”
“Ballet if you want, or you can take tap,” Mom answered.
“Whoopee!” I yelled, jumping up and down. “When can we start?”
Very soon the day came. After school we went to Studio Bochette. Through a large picture window, we could see girls in leotards and tights practicing in a sunny room. Some stood at a barre, watching themselves stretch in a mirror. Those girls had toe shoes and were learning ballet. Another group of girls, in tap shoes, waited their turn.
“Okay, girls, what’ll it be?” a cheerful lady asked us.
“We haven’t decided yet,” answered Leslie with dignity. “But we think we want ballet.”
“Well, while you think about it, come look through these toe shoes,” she offered, leading us to a small room with a large box of ballet shoes. We dug in eagerly, but all of the shoes were so big! After trying on every pair, and feeling like Cinderella trying on her step-sister’s big shoes, we gave up. The lady looked at mom and said, “Well, I know we have tap shoes to fit them.”
That’s how we decided to take tap dancing. We went in to a small dressing room and changed into our leotards and tights. They were both black, and so were the tap shoes. These shoes weren’t soft like the ballet slippers. They were like dressy church shoes, only they had heavy metal taps affixed to the bottom front. After we got them buckled on, we went into the studio with our class. The wood floor shone softly, polished by generations of dancing feet. We all stood in a line, wiggling with anticipation. Our teacher began our lesson.
“Watch and then do,” she instructed and she moved her leg quickly, flicking her foot and producing a tapping sound like a shod horse on cobbles. We all moved our legs quickly and all our shoes made sounds too - like a herd of elephants on steroids.
Laughing, the teacher showed us again, slower, and this time we sounded better. We learned to point our toes down slightly and “scuff” our feet quickly, almost floppily, against the wood floor. Every movement of our foot produced certain sounds, some heavy, some light and soft. Sometimes we moved quickly, sometimes slowly, toe, heel, toe, turn! This was fun!
All too soon the first lesson was over. And then we got a serendipity! We took our shoes off, but then our teacher said, “Come in here!” and led us all into a new room, one with mats on the floor. We got to do tumbling, too! Now we had two new teachers. They showed us how to tuck up like a cat and roll forward down the mat. I felt like a bowling ball as one teacher held me together and rolled me gently toward the other. I thought I could do it by myself. First I rolled off to the side and then I came undone, but they patiently tucked me back together and I rolled along straighter this time. After a bit of practice, our lesson really was over. We changed to our regular clothes and rode home with Mom, bubbling over with excitement and eager to return.
The next couple of lessons improved our technique. At the end of the third lesson, the teacher began talking about a recital. We learned we would wear costumes, like little Hawaiian girls, with flower leis and grass skirts. We began learning the steps, tap, cross the feet, turn. “Good, now your hands,” the teacher exclaimed. “As you cross one foot over the other, reach up, as if you are picking flowers off of a tree, and then gently put them in your imaginary baskets. Gracefully, girls!” Very gracefully she demonstrated, her hands moving gently. We practiced over and over, adding the hand motions as we tapped our way across the floor.
In tumbling we were learning to do back rolls. Leslie was much better at tumbling than I was. She could tuck up tighter and roll straighter. I wobbled more. I resolved to do better the next week.
But when the next week came, the phone was ringing as we rushed in from school. It was Mama saying she couldn’t leave work. “Oh, no!” we moaned.
“Listen,” she soothed, “it will be fine! I’m calling a taxi to take you to your dance lesson. When the taxi comes, go out and get in. The taxi driver will know what to do. Then I’ll be there to pick you up after your lesson.”
Wow. We were impressed. Neither of us had ever been in a taxi before. We heard a “beep-beep-beep” and looked out to see that the taxi had arrived. The driver was a very big man. If I’d been by myself I know I couldn’t have gotten in to that taxi, even if I had to miss dance lessons. I don’t know, but I think Leslie felt the same way. She looked at me and I looked at her and we looked scared. The taxi driver was in a hurry. “Come on, you girls, your mom said to take you to the dance studio.”
Well, he knew where we were going. That was reassuring. We got in the back seat and that helped some. We sat very close together. The taxi driver ignored us and that helped too. Then we were stepping out at the familiar small, white building and we were happy again. “We rode in a taxi cab!” we bragged to our new friends.
“Hurry, girls,” our teacher admonished, “you’re late!” The other girls were already going into the studio. We hurried to change and hurried out to practice. I looked at Leslie and she looked fine. But the teacher looked at me, and she laughed! Then everyone looked at me and they all laughed. I was bewildered. I tried to decide whether or not to cry.
“You hurried so fast you came out backwards!” the teacher explained, showing me the inside seams on the outside of my leotard. In the mirror I could see the tag sticking straight out on the back. The teacher took me back in the dressing room. She very kindly helped me to get my clothes on right side out. When we came back no one laughed at me anymore. Our music started and we worked on our routine. We knew what we were supposed to do, now. We had to tap, tap, toe, heel, reach slowly, turning all the way from one side to the other, all together.
I began to feel like a small Island girl. I could feel the sea breezes on my skin as I moved. The fragrance of the exotic flowers wafted to my nose as I gracefully picked them, placing them gently in the basket I’d woven from palm leaves. I couldn’t wait to wear a grass skirt.
Tumbling was still a challenge. We were learning to do a backbend. Leslie could do it by herself. She would stand with her legs slightly apart, arms up above her head, and lean her head back. Slowly she bent back until she could see the ground beneath and behind her. Gently she lowered herself backward toward it, palms stretched out. Over, over she’d lean until her hands were flat on the floor and her body made a bridge. She could walk slowly on her hands and feet, then bring her head and hands back up until she was standing! It looked fascinating - until it was my turn. At first the teacher helped me by holding me, her hand on the small of my back. But sometimes, when I leaned back, my feet would come up off the floor! I kept working until I learned to do a back bend too.
As the weeks passed, the recital moved closer. Now we practiced at home too. Our costumes were being made! Tumbling continued as well. We were learning cartwheels. I never quite mastered cartwheels, but Leslie could do them if she held her mouth just right! I could do about 3/4ths of a cartwheel. But you should have seen me do forward rolls! Even backward rolls. And I never put my leotard on wrong-side out again.
Finally the day came when our costumes were ready. We had to put them on and do our entire routine in them. This was called a dress rehearsal. Now we were as ready as we’d ever be. The night of the recital arrived! We didn’t go to the familiar studio. We went to the local High School. That’s where all the big productions were held. We had gone to rehearsals there for community plays in which Mom and Dad acted. Then we were waiting around, getting into mischief, learning “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater” on the piano, watching Mom and Dad in plays like “Fireman, Save My Child!” and “Charlie’s Aunt.” But this time Mom and Dad would be in the audience and we would be performing on stage! We had our costumes on, our flowers and our tap shoes. Giggling, we waited for our turn.
Teacher came and lined us up, reminding us that it was time to get serious. We were all in a line, smiles pasted on, when the curtain rose. It was a big, heavy, red, velvet curtain. As a man pulled a long cord, slowly the curtain went up. We could see rows of people looking expectantly at us. Where was Mama? Before we could find her and wave, our teacher was making “Phtt, phtt” noises to get our attention. We all looked at her and our music started playing - the same music we had practiced to over and over at our lessons. We began to tap out the rhythm of our routine. Tap, tap, toe, heel, reach high, turn. We smiled, danced, picked the imaginary flowers and placed them deep in our imaginary baskets. We were concentrating so hard, trying not to make mistakes. We danced our very best, trying to make our audience feel the ocean breezes of our island home. As we took our final positions, our music ended. Everyone clapped and cheered. We took our bows. We were dance recital stars!