Having a child graduate from high
school this week has caused me to think about all things school—the studying,
the socializing, the teachers…and so, in my mother’s nervousness, I started
thinking about my own school child
nervousness—which goes all the way back to first grade.
Back then, kindergarten was not
compulsory—so being an only child living in the city with protective parents—I
was not sent to preschool or
kindergarten. My parents and I (and our cat, Cricket Elvis) moved from
Portland, Oregon to the coastal town of Florence, Oregon when I was six…just in
time to start the first grade.
I remember the smell of those halls
like it was yesterday—a mixture of paper and paste; and the feeling—that I
could fall into a dark hole at any moment, never to be seen again—sort of a
Willy Wonka-ish awareness of something about to happen…but I knew not what.
Those first few weeks, I became ill
at school. My tummy was in knots and I felt like I might very well throw up—and
I did a few times. My first grade teacher, Miss Johnson, I’m quite sure had
never met a child like me. She tried to convince me that my nervous feeling was
all in my head—I thought she just might recant that opinion after I spewed all
over a table one day after lunch.
Clearly, it had been in my stomach,
not my head. Perhaps her opinion had also been reinforced by my fear of the
bathroom. She had to walk me down the hall for the longest time and stand at
the door. On one of these occasions, when she wondered what was taking me so
long, I had explained that I was spreading toilet paper on the seat so that I
didn’t catch crabs.
Second grade was a bit better. My
teacher, Miss Goodrich had a more patient, calm disposition. She was always
sweet and encouraging. I started to feel more confident about school, and I
even had a “boyfriend” for a day or two.
For third grade, I had to move to a
different school building, which was incredibly scary. At that time, Florence
only offered classes through grade two at Siuslaw Elementary. Beyond that,
students had to go to Rhododendron Elementary, across town. My new teacher,
Mrs. Wilson, was also a kind woman. She communicated her concerns
clearly—something my parents did not
seem to appreciate. You see, that year I began to feel the weight of being
“different.” I wasn’t a popular kid. I didn’t do sports or take dance classes.
I wasn’t a girl scout, and my mom didn’t volunteer at school. I always got
picked next to last for any team games. As a result, I found excuses to miss a
lot of school. And my P.E. teacher—we’ll call him Mr. S—I’m still pretty sure
he didn’t like me.
You see, I had asthma as a child,
so I couldn’t run as well as the other kids—plus, I wasn’t overly active in my
spare time. One day, running laps around the track, I was panting. Mr. S
insisted I keep going and made a comment that suggested I could run faster if I
wasn’t on the chunky side. I wasn’t fat, but I did weigh more than a lot of my
classmates, partly due to the virtue of my frame. Somehow, I didn’t take kindly
to Mr. S’s remark and my response of “Well, you’re not such a beanpole
yourself” landed me, for the first time ever, in the principal’s office.
Fourth grade was a fairly smooth
year, though I did have a lot of nervous energy. I was becoming more and more
aware of being a bit of an “outcast.” Still, most kids were nice to me. I think my teacher, Mrs. Dodson—a
seasoned lady with very clear expectations—was trying her best to figure me
out. I spent a lot of my time thinking—not
necessarily on the things I should
have been thinking about. I’m pretty sure a lot of my thoughts amounted to
worries of various kinds, but I recall hopes and dreams as well. In my
anxiousness, I picked my head a lot in class. Another problem I had was that I
had begun to comfort myself with food. I persuaded my mom to pack me large
lunches—always with a Hostess product of some sort—and I didn’t get to go to
recess much because I could never finish my lunch on time. It was this year
that I began to put on pounds—and I had terrible handwriting. Perhaps I loved
my lunches more than I did cursive.
Fifth grade was an awkward year. I
had begun developing in fourth grade—and this year even moreso. And we had to
sit through those ridiculous “growing and developing” movies, separated into ou
respective sexes. I liked my homeroom teacher, Mr. Coffindaffer, but I did
worry as to whether he liked me or
not. Long division was brutal. Social rhetoric was uncomfortable. Even though I
liked my teacher, I virtually hated school—and therefore I missed impressive
amounts of school, convincing my parents that I didn’t feel well in as many
different ways as one 11-year-old actress can muster.
I also had some rebellious
tendencies when I was at school. One
time, I gave in to a dare to pull the old powdered soap dispensers off the wall
of the girls’ bathroom. It was no small feat, but I did it…and I was quickly
reported to the principal. I didn’t deny it, and I didn’t get paddled—even
though it was allowed at that time, and there was a nice wooden “enforcer”
prominently displayed in his office. To be honest, he was probably afraid of
the wrath of my mother. My parents had to replace the dispensers, which was a
financial hardship for them. I felt bad about having done such a foolish thing,
but I was upset that I had to be at that school.
At the end of the year, my teacher
conveyed to my parents that he really shouldn’t
pass me on to the next grade due to the amount of school and assignments I had
missed—but he felt it would emotionally crush me if he didn’t. My parents were
grateful for his compassion but began to contemplate how they might find me a
different school situation for the upcoming year.
There was one private school in
town, run by the Seventh Day Adventist Church. It was a one-room school
construct, with grades one through eight represented. I was to be one of four
sixth-graders. I liked the new school very much. Kids were very accepting of
me. I thrived in many ways…attendance, however, wasn’t one of them. I had
developed a bad habit, and it continued. Somehow communication between school
and home—or perhaps my parents’ attentiveness to it—wasn’t effective, and much
of the work was never made up.
Then came the last day of school. I
was excited to get my grades and embrace summer. I opened my report card at
school, only to read the words “Needs to repeat the sixth grade.” I asked my
teacher about it, but she only commented that my parents would need to contact
the school. I walked home in tears. I had flunked
the sixth grade—and how? Here I thought I was a good student!
My mom proved to be just as shocked
as I was. But she assured me that would
not be the end of it. And it wasn’t. That summer, my grandfather had bought us
a trailer, and we were to undergo another big change—moving. We would live
up-river, in the tiny speck-of-a-town called Mapleton. The moving logistics
were going to be tricky though. My parents kept me out of school for the first
month, then they finally took me to Mapleton Junior High to see what, if
anything, could be done about my grade standing. I was not about to repeat the sixth grade. The school sort of scolded my
parents for not having registered me previously, but they listened as my
parents explained their unique work and living situation—it had taken them time
to secure a spot in a trailer court, figure out how to move the trailer itself,
and they didn’t want me in a school where I’d have the same kinds of
difficulties. They asked if I could be tested for admission to the seventh
grade.
The school administrator, a compassionate
man named Mr. Welch, agreed. I was tested, and some of my scores reached the
tenth grade level. Clearly, I was ready for the seventh grade. I was promptly
registered. The only other issue was—I would have to stay with friends for a
couple weeks while my parents were working and organizing the move. I fought
hard against that. I had always been unhealthily attached to my parents and had
never spent the night away from home, except a few times with my favorite aunt,
Elsie. But wisdom prevailed—and I started school.
I only knew one person, a second
cousin the same age and grade as me, Tricia Worthylake. But I soon made a
couple other friends. I didn’t have any sense of style (nor did my family have
the money for me to develop one)—and a poor sense of hygiene—so I was
definitely not treated honorably by everyone. In fact, some of my peers were
downright mean. But my teachers liked me, and I found I had a knack of
impressing them with my reading-aloud and written expression abilities—as well
as my ability to converse well with adults, a skill only children tend to pick
up.
I whizzed through the eighth grade
unscathed as well, having made a “best”
junior high friend named Michelle.
High school took place in a
connecting building—and parts in the lower building we had spent our middle
school years in. So the change wasn’t drastic. Yes, some new teachers were
added to my repertoire, but I found I liked them and that they appreciated my
unique outlook on life—and my humor most of the time. Freshman year was the
worst, and because I wasn’t convinced of the good things God had for me, I
pursued the wrong things—which put up walls between my school friends and
myself. Sophomore year was a bit better, especially as I became more
established on the staff of our high school newspaper.
Junior year proved to be my best
year ever. By that time, Tricia and I had become best friends—and she supported
me through some rough times. I developed some style, and I became more
confident about being me.
It was that year that I decided I wanted to be
a teacher—a rather surprising twist after all my school struggles. I’d had a
fair amount of experience entertaining and “teaching” younger kids, some
experience babysitting, and one remarkable visit in which I read a story I’d written
to a second grade class. I loved being there and hearing their comments and
questions. This was something I just knew I needed to pursue.
And so, after getting married the
summer after my senior year in high school, I began my Elementary Ed program at
Oregon State University. And the rest is history…sort of. I know I’m still in
process, and I want to continue to grow as a teacher, in whatever setting God
has for me. Had God not directed my path—and my parents’ path—I certainly had
the makings of a high school drop-out, or some other kind of statistic. But He
showed me a vision of the classroom, of the excitement of learning, and of the
glory of writing something amazing—for me they’re all connected.
I may not be your average teacher, but I try
to make sure kids feel at ease, and I use the gifts God’s given me to enhance
their learning experiences. Finding a point of connection so that when they are
presented with new doors, they have the courage to walk through them. Using
what I’ve overcome to help them overcome—and know that they have an important place in the
class and in my heart. If I could give any advice to teachers, it would be: Know and love yourself, so you can know and
love your students. To me, that’s the heart of what teaching is all about.
