below: a photo of my old elementary school, circa 1968.

Teachers Were Students Once

I thought I would take this opportunity, inspired by my redesigned blog and website, to revisit the early years of my education. In my mind, teachers must be regularly reminded of their own educational successes, mishaps, highlights, and low lights while they are at work. It seems to me that few professions would have these types of memory triggers within the occupation. I mean , yes, we all went to doctors, bought things from stores, hired workers or contractors, knew of accountants or bookkeepers, but none of these representatives of professions spent so MUCH time in their jobs previous to actually getting the job.

I’ll begin in elementary school, the first of any of my significant memories. The first day I got dropped off at my new school, Kenwood Elementary in Miami, I got lost. Apparently, I was given a little schedule card in the office and then sent on my way to the room. From my memory, there were no little student helpers or assistants showing people around and helping them to class. Did I arrive late? All I recall is that I felt so silly not finding my class. I sat down on the sidewalk and cried until I was collected and brought to 1st grade. Late, so that everybody stared at me.

When I did arrive, I discovered that my teacher was a lovely octogenarian from the great state of Georgia. A thicker Southern drawl was never heard by my little ears. And so began my path with Mrs. Lillian Adams, a sweet very old white lady that was barely comprehensible to me. Somehow, I got through the first grade with flying colors and loved school. I loved Mrs. Adams because my favorite aunt’s first name was Lillian. ( luv u Auntie Lil RIP)

However, my happy little world was about to be disturbed. If I could pick out one word that defined my ruination, it would be: subtraction. Good grief! What a ballbuster it was for me. My little pea brain couldn’t grasp the concept of “borrowing.” Do they still teach it that way? To top it off, I had the meanest teacher lady imaginable, in my kid view. Mrs. Miller was much younger than the other teacher, but far less pleasant and far more threatening. She had the thickest drawn-on eyebrows you could ever imagine– AND a beehive up-do. Every day! How did she pull that off?? Anyway, my lifelong aversion and difficulty with math started then and there, and Mrs. Miller was not amused by my bewilderment. She felt that I wasn’t trying hard enough, I suppose. So, one trauma was added into to my hitherto simple little life.

When I was in the third grade, I had a student in my neighboring seat who was of Middle Eastern descent named Omar. The reason I specify that he was Middle Eastern is to show that Miami in the late sixties had already started to become a city of immigrants, even before the great Cuban influx of the 1980’s. Anyhow, I just loved this kid: he really had me hooked when, on a daily basis, he would position his head is just such a way that I could see him wiggle his ears wildly. There was nothing that anyone else could do that would impress me more.

Also, in third grade, I started to love reading, became a good speller, and enjoyed learning how to do handwriting. Math became only slightly better for me with the multiplication tables. I learned to love FLASH CARDS and was decent at memorizing. I still have my students make their own vocabulary flashcards all year, and some of the most fun days in class we have is when I have the students get into groups of 5-6 and use the flashcards in a competitive game. If you would walk into my class on one of those days, you would hear a cacophony of bangs, yelps, and good-natured (sometimes) arguments. All the noise is not indicating chaos, however; it is organized and purposeful pandemonium. I think it’s an excellent classroom environment for this type of activity.

Fledgling Protester

Back to Kenwood Elementary, I would say the first highlight of my education was my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Williams, a lovely young black lady who used the prefix “Ms., ” and had a voice not unlike a 30-something Minnie Mouse. She was wonderful: always calm, always kind. Plus she had beautiful cursive handwriting. I had been taking guitar lessons and she somehow found this out. She asked my parents maybe at Open House if I could play for the whole class. Damn if I didn’t! Oh Yes, I did. I got up there in front of them all and played “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” right there in 1969, the height of the Vietnam War and here I was playing a protest song. Was my hippie/alternative life not mapped out for me right then and there? I sang my heart out, I think off-key. Did the class like it? I guess maybe, but I was not a good singer. However, my guitar skills were admirable. Everyone said so. In any case, right after that I won over my first boyfriend, and for the rest of the year, we held hands under the desk. And his name? Christopher Columbus (Chris). I’m not making this up–that really was his name.

To this day, I don’t know how I mustered up the nerve to play that song for the class. Most students, including me back then, are direly afraid to get up in front of the class to say something, much less sing. (Now, no one can shut me up either speaking or singing, apparently.) I have recently placed an activity for public speaking practice in my Teachers Pay Teachers Store called : Impromptu Speaking. It is great fun and students actually feel a little better about the idea of speaking in public after they do it. Here’s a link: Public Speaking Practice- Impromptu Speech Topics Task Cards | TPT

Slapped into Harsh Reality

Sadly, there were some dark times looming. Moving into the fifth grade, I had my very first male teacher: a Mr. Mulango. Hmmm. Where to start. He was very mean to some, and very nice to others. As it turns out, he disliked the boys rather intensely and just the opposite for the girls. There was always a spot right on his lap reserved for the most darlingest girls in the class, of which I was not one. I didn’t have that honor, nor did I want it. The most surprising thing is how the girls fought for his favor and a spot on his lap. I’m sorry but they were just fucking stupid. Okay, fine, they were children. BUT I was children too and I knew this guy was a pervert. I hated him. As a result, I started feigning illness almost every day to get out of going to school.

Finally, midway through the year, my mother went into to the principal and demanded that I be changed into another class, which I was. Thank goodness. He actually made a pointed speech about my getting a transfer out of his class, like this if I can recall:

Mulango: It appears that there are some children who are not strong enough to be in My Class. The ones who remain have strength of character that is admirable. (little tears formed in his eyes–yes, it’s true.) But not everyone can have this. I wish everyone good luck and no hard feelings.

Me (what I wish I would have said): Man…. You have got to be joking. Who is everyone? You’re only looking at me– you f%$%!!# pr#@!%$$…!

And then I got escorted to my new class.

However, he kept teaching for at least several more years! Mr. Mulango, I heard, did finally get forced to resign or some such thing. But I will thank him for waking my little kid brain to some of the nastier realities of life. I was moved into yet another very elderly Southern lady’s class who, in this case, was rotund in terms of sheer poundage. Nevertheless, she was a blessed relief for me. Her neck waddle shook every time she uttered her everyday greeting: “Good mornin, young pay-ple!” I apologize for my insensitivities to my teachers’ flaws. It just goes to show you that little kids remember the strangest things about their teachers. One of the only things I remember, to this day, about my high school trigonometry teacher is the long black arm hair she had. I can only hope that my students have never kept all the catalogues of my imperfections in their diaries.

Here’s to hoping that your eyeballs haven’t dropped out of there sockets from the dramatic story of my elementary school teachers, and here is where I shall end, for now, with my inauspicious/auspicious beginnings. Who or what mattered? In the realm of childhood, one never knows how a word or a look from a teacher can leave an impression for life. It would be wise to remember this idea if you are one of THEM.