It was a grand coming of age; a time of tremendous change within our bodies and without, which no one is ready for as they enter the 6th grade. We had shaken the chains of inferiority that came with the term Jr. High and attended the more enlightened “Middle School," a place of transition, no, metamorphosis for all.
We were proud of our newly-built school and assistant principal that rode a motorcycle. The large building was surrounded on three sides by bean fields occasionally sown in wheat and a woodlot bordered the back parking area. The building was built of cinderblock—low and broad—with all the charm of a penitentiary. Here, we spent our pre-teen years in the middle of woods and fields where no house could be seen and the only road was the school’s newly-paved driveway, which was a dead end.
Everyone who attends elementary school is a child. There is no other option. We are given time to nap and milk at every meal. If we’re naughty, we’re sent to the principal for licks (a southern term for paddling). Except for my third grade year when it was announced that the school would no longer give licks and other forms of punishment would be implemented. We all cheered. Not spanking children is easier said than done and we lacked the creativity to adapt to our new forms of punishment, namely isolation. The next year, after a public outcry from the faculty, we once again held the backs of chairs and submitted to this more familiar way of correction. At least we could be with our friends during recess.
No one ever asked us if we wanted to enter the six-grade. It was a forced coming of age and we found resistance futile. So we took the bus a mile further and entered our wildest dreams and most horrid nightmares.
In our town, teachers are selected from available and credentialed people and like all people created equal they end up quite different. I’ll never forget my first middle school teacher. She was not like the rest. I was a unique student; my behavior was a watershed for all who found me on their roll. Most liked me well enough the first week. I was interested in the newness of the classroom and this was a positive distraction. But, after the first week it started… I became bored. When I got bored I was obnoxious, hardheaded, and uncontrollable.
I loathed most teachers and they responded in like manner. At 28 to 1 the odds are in the students’ favor. I made life difficult for all who were available and credentialed. I enjoyed it. I took pride in being the class clown (a superlative I would later win—a credential of my own).
I have nothing against teachers. Some of my best friends are teachers, but teachers are humans and not all humans are enjoyable to be around; some more obtuse than others. In my school, we had various kinds of teachers, some belonged to a sub-set known as coaches, and even two librarians, one old and kind the other fearsome, intimidating, and also old. The librarians didn’t see me much. I preferred to test on books I had never read, it was more challenging and took much less time. Anyone can pass a comprehension test on a book they read all the way through. I went at these tests with only brute intellect and the information provided on the inside cover. My test scores reflected not the creativity of the writer’s ability to communicate to adolescents, but my ability to guess.
Failing tests never bothered me as much as it did my teacher, Mrs. Davidson. She was as odd a teacher as I was a student. Most teachers appreciated me less and less as the year went on. Mrs. D, as her students called her, was the opposite. She liked me because she liked all students, she loved me because I was her student. For some of us, the safest place of the day was under her care. Her classroom was a cookie cutter like all the rest, she was not. She protected us, she made us safe. The first week, she named us. She called our class the “cream of the crop.” We were not, but we couldn’t convince her otherwise, no matter how we acted.
She would not settle for less than our best and inspired us to be who she knew we could be. She encouraged her students. She built us up. I can’t remember what she taught, but I know what I learned from her. Teachers, I’ve had many but none so humble as she. If she had a bad day, she told us. If she was not feeling well from a condition she had lived with for many years, she let us know. Mrs. D was firm and strict. I often felt this by way of her paddle brought across my backside. We had a tradition of signing that plank of wood each time we had to go “into the hall.” My name was crowding out the others so I opted for tic marks to save room.
At 11 years of age, my ear was somehow connected to my rear and her talks were worth it. In her fifties, she still had a youthful athletic build, which produced quite a sting. But her heart was genteel and she spoke softly. Once, when I lost my boyhood toughness and produced a singe tear she took hold of me and pulled me to her side to keep me safe.
Mrs. D told us to watch her and if her voice became cruel or her words harsh, we were to hold both hands up to let her know. She kept us safe.
She taught us manners and respect for others. We were a team. Politeness was the norm and we cared for each other. We still had our bad days, some really bad. Like the time Peggy put me in my place by putting a fist in my gut—about five times. We loved each other as classmates and friends. And so it hurt, when one of us was lost to a tragic accident.
Drowning was not unheard of living near the Mississippi river, but not like this, not our friend Kristen. She was the best of us and we all knew it. Once another student belittled Kristen. The pain was traumatic for the young girl; a line had been crossed. The offending other was not found in our class the next day. She had been moved to another room and we were safe.
Loosing Kristen was difficult for us all but I know that Mrs. D bore it the hardest. Outside her door lay a world of terrible pain and uncertainty. She could only do so much. She could not keep us safe for always. We didn’t hold it against her.
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