When Illusions Die

“Atticus, he was real nice."

"Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

I've not posted here in a few years but I am back now because a story has come to mind and it won't due to keep it to myself.  It all started with this headline on Buzzfeed:

Atticus Finch Is A Racist In “To Kill A Mockingbird” Sequel

 WHAT?! One of my favorite stories of all times is To Kill a Mockingbird.  When I heard she was writing a sequel I was thrilled.  But...this?

I will need to read the story before I decide how I feel about this betrayal...it FEELS like betrayal but I just don't know yet.  We will reserve judgement until the facts are gathered but here is my story....

I was raised in a neighborhood that was predominantly white...well, it was ALL white if you really want the facts.  I'd never really seen a person of color until Junior High.  You must be apprised of this fact not because I believe I need to embrace what it known as "white privilege" but to add context and meaning the the stories I am about to relate.

When I was in Fifth or Sixth grade I had, as previous posts will tell you, become aware of what it meant to be living on the wrong side of Manor Street.  I still had no interactions with people whose skin was a different color.

The scene is this:  I am riding in my father's car with three of my friends when we see a Black man walking down the street.  One of my friends says, "Look at that Ni**ar!"  

You MUST realize I did not even know what she meant but I figured out pretty quickly that it was not good because the car came to a screeching halt....in the middle of the street.  My father put the car in Park and turned to my friend and said, "We do not use words like that in our family and if you continue you can just get out of the car and walk home."

I.  Was.  Mortified!  I already had trouble making friends!  What was he trying to do to me? (and, of course, it was all about me...I was still a kid!) I sank down into the seat, my face burning with embarrassment, hoping my friends would stop and just forget this ever happened.  How do you think THAT turned out?

My father tried to explain but I did not get it.  He was perhaps not as eloquent as Harper Lee:

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

 

Fast forward to Junior High....auditions for the Miss Jr. High School pageant.  There were three of us: a friend from the right side of Manor Street, a beautiful Hispanic girl, and me.

I performed a lively baton twirling routine to Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made for Walking."(Don't quote me on that as I'm not sure of the exact song but I did have a routine done to this song...and afterwards never wanted to hear it again!)   My friend did a snappy little baton number to a Sousa March.  The Hispanic Girl took the stage and began to sing, without accompaniment.  It was beautiful.  I do not remember what she sang but I leaned over to my friend and said, "It's over. She is more talented than both of us combined."  My friend just smirked.  

The judges announced the winner and it was my friend...the one from the right side of Manor Street.

I was shocked!  I thought surely they'd made a mistake.  I quickly approached one of the judges to inquire as to why they'd done this.

The response was, "We can't have someone like THAT representing our school."

I still did not get it.  What was that supposed to mean?  Wasn't it about talent?  No, I guess it wasn't.
I went home and told my Mom and Dad.  They just shook their heads and said there was really nothing we could do about it. 

Fast forward again to High School.....time for the Senior Prom!  As I said, I had trouble making friends and boyfriends were in the same category.  I had a friend though; a good friend.  He made me laugh, he was really nice and he was a REAL friend (more on that later.)  We decided that we'd go to the Prom together since neither of us had a significant other.  It would be great!

After I said YES he looked at me with a seriousness I'd never seen and tinged with a bit of sadness.  He asked, "Will your parents be OK with this?"  I said OF COURSE they will be.  They won't care that your skin is a different color than mine!'  He still looked sad and said he'd call that night to confirm.

I told my parents my plans that night.  My mom immediately started to cry and my Dad said that I could not do that.  I was shocked!  I asked why and my parents just kept saying it wasn't a good idea. The more they resisted answering the angrier I got.  I shouted, "Is it because he's BLACK?!"

I don't remember what else they said because I was in full tantrum mode.  Where was that guy who stopped the car in the middle of the freaking street to embarrass me by standing up for what was right?

Well my friend called and I have to say my tantrum continued and I said something to my parents that to this day I regret....I also regret putting my friend through this too.  I answered the phone and he asked, "Can you go?"  I held out the phone to my parent's and and shouted, " YOU tell him.  You tell him your lily white daughter cannot go to the prom with him because he is BLACK!"

I don't remember much after that....only that I worked at my department store job the evening of the prom.

Fast forward to a Social Work class in my Master's Program.  Sharing that story was a part of a journal of exploring how our life experiences make us who we are.  The Professor commented on my story something to the effect that I should not be too hard on them because they were a product of their stories; a product of the times.  I'm still grateful to her for that insight.

Fast forward to today.  Where we are living in anything but a post-racial society.  I have feelings on that which are better left for my other blog, but I'd like to point out that only certain people get a pass on that "product of the times" thing.  For instance the fact that a liberal Democrat icon was just a product of his times when he was a member of the KKK but my parents would probably be demonized for being a product of THEIR time.  Not right but there it is.

I later learned that my older cousin who just sort of disappeared one day and was never talked about again had married a Black man.  Their lives, as you can guess, were not easy.  Neither community accepted or welcomed them.  They faced hard times.  I talked to my mom about this a bit when I was an adult.  She expressed that their refusal to allow me to go was based more on the troubles we would face than the fact that we were of different races.   Fear makes us do things sometimes that are not in keeping with our principles.  We are all human.

A footnote: during my High School years there were race riots.  I do not know what set them off but reading history I could probably guess.  It boiled over and one day I found myself walking down the hall by myself when around the corner came about 100 kids; Black kids.  They started beating on anyone with white skin.  I was paralyzed...not necessarily out of fear but because I was trying to process why they were doing this.  I felt no danger until they were almost to me and a few ran in my direction....OK, now I was scared but I was STILL a bit naive in that I thought, "I'm a good person.  Surely they know that."

All of a sudden my friend appears out of nowhere, blocking their way.  He said, "She's OK."  They passed by.  What did THAT mean? I still didn't get it.  He told me to leave school and go home.  I did.

So, today, I find that the narrative says I am NOT OK just because of the color of my skin.  Go figure.

So....back to Atticus Finch....Is Ms. Lee's sequel a fine telling of the story of realizing your parents are not perfect nor are they gods or is it a story about the fact that racist thought and deed is in the White person's DNA?  Only reading the story will answer that.  Only reading the story will tell if Harper Lee is attempting to help us grow up....or attempting to feed the narrative that has so divided our country.

I leave you with one final quote from that much beloved tale:

 “People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

 

My Life on One Page

This was a great writing exercise! If you have to write your entire life up to the present moment on one page what would you choose?  This is what I came up with.

I was born in Alexandria Virginia at the George Washington Hospital--which no longer exists.  I like to muse that it had "served its purpose" (to bring me safely into this world.)  Then, no longer needed, it was transformed into something less useful--a government building.  During my infancy my mom worked at the Pentagon.  I sure wish I had asked her more about that when she was alive!

When I was four years old we lived in a house with a bright green roof.  I wanted to be Zorro.  He wore black and jumped off the roof onto his trusty horse, Tornado.  I lived in a bubble of protection and wore pink.

When I was in the fifth grade my teacher hit me in the head with a book.  My crimes? They were, in no particular order, living on the wrong side of Manor Street, helping a classmate who was struggling, and, in general being nice to her in spite of her mean disposition toward me.

In Junior High I entered the John F. Reynolds "Junior Miss"contest.  There were only three of us.  The one with the most talent didn't win.  The one who lived on the right side of Manor Street did. 

In High School I continued to love learning, became a majorette and learned quite a bit about racism. I also learned from my dad that I could do ANYTHING I set my mind to.  He was right :-)  I also fainted at a football game during one of our halftime performances.  My dad was the only person besides the band leader who noticed.

In college I still loved learning but learned a little late that I wasn't cut out to be a teacher.....so I majored in Psychology to figure out why.

As an adult I spent 25+ years working with disabled children and adults, trying to solve the mystery of why it was so hard for people to accept others "as they are."

I retired to spend my time as a storyteller, a Stephen minister, and a parent.

I now blog to to solve even bigger mysteries.

In Sixth Grade and Growing up Fast

Before we leave 5th grade I want to share one more memory.

Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated?

The other memory seared in my mind from my fifth grade year was the assassination of President Kennedy.  The loudspeaker came on and we heard a radio report stating that the president had been shot.  No preparation, no reassurances to the kids, just the President had been shot.  We were excused from school and told to go home.  

 I’m thinking that today the school would have had grief counselors on site within hours.  Counselors provided, not because of the assassination but because of the complete absence of reassurances that we were still safe.  Maybe other teachers did this.  I don’t know.  I don’t even know if Mrs. W tried to reassure the smart side of the room.  I do know I left terrified about what this all meant and that there was no way I could seek comfort from Mrs. W. 

The real world was coming into focus and I didn’t understand what it all meant.  

 

Being a Zorro wannabe I was very familiar with injustice and senseless tragedy.  However, it occurred in 30-minute episodes and the good guy always prevailed.  Real life was different. 

Summer Trips to Washington D.C. 

In the summer between fifth and sixth grades my father started a tradition of taking me and a few of my friends on a trip to see the sights in Washington D.C.  Of course, my favorite part was stopping at the "Hot Shops" for lunch which, of course included the most delicious onion rings ever produced.

I believe the first of such trips included two of my cousins, Marty Lou and Kim.  Also invited along was Patti Jo one of my neighborhood buddies.  

We went to see all the sights.  One, of course being the Washington Monument.  This was back in the day when you could actually walk up the stairs to the top as opposed to taking the elevator.

It seems that it was my Dad's tradition to actually walk up AND down all those stairs to the top.  So I decided to walk with him. 

Now, my memory may be foggy, but I seem to remember that he and I walked up and down.  My cousins and friend did not, or, at least did not do the round trip.  So we took a before and after picture.  I'm pretty sure all those "exhausted" children laying on the lawn did not do the walking part both ways.  But it made for a good picture.

You can see my Dad's shadow in one of the pictures.  Our parents cast shadows in our memories that stay with us forever, don't they?

Thinking back, I am grateful that my Dad took the time to do this with us.  It was probably really hot and humid in D.C. during those trips, but he walked around with us all day.  He showed us the sights, let us put our feet in the Potomac (at least I assume that's what the picture of us is where we are all standing with our feet in the water. :-)  He took us out to eat and took pictures everywhere we went.  

He was one awesome Dad! 

Mr. R and the Fruit Roll Throw

Well, I progressed to sixth grade, self esteem relatively intact.  Mr. R was the sixth grade teacher.  I had only had women as teachers to this point so this was quite exciting.  However, Mr. R was not very skilled in classroom management and we walked all over him.

We were quite unruly too.  Yes, I said we.  I went along with most everything and never, ever really tried to re-direct the activity.  My peers’ approval was becoming definitely more important than adults.

There were three other girls in the class who lived near me, so we spent most of our time passing notes, giggling, and, in general, ignoring Mr. R.  One day I suppose he had had enough and he rearranged our desks and split us up.  I was saddened by this, until one of my friends announced that we should come back early after lunch because she had a plan.   

We met back in the classroom (Mr. R was still in that mysterious place called the Teacher’s Lounge) and proceeded to move our desks back together again.  I was sure we would get into deep trouble, but when he came back and saw what we did he just got a funny look on his face and ignored the whole thing. 

We all sat in the back of the classroom, which was great as far as I was concerned.  You see, we had this reading program stored back there with different reading levels.  So, I spent most of my time reading.  The only break from this was my group’s daily extracurricular activity-- swinging on the bars in the girl’s room.  One by one we would ask to go to the girl’s lav.  When we were all there we would jump off the toilets and swing on the bars.  We even hung there by our legs.  It was great!    

This, of course, was during a time when the stall structure in school lavatories consisted of round pipes....just like a jungle gym!  Today they are square with sharp edges.  Mr. R probably got into the construction business after his experience with us.

One day we were all hanging by our legs when the door flew open and Mr. R’s unmistakable voice yelled, “What’s going on in here!”  We were probably giggling loudly and complaining about Mr. R never really thinking that since the restroom was right across the hall from our classroom he would probably hear us.   

We were shocked!  A man opened the door to the girl’s bathroom!   Wasn’t that illegal or something!  We had all jumped down, except for one of my friends, so Mr. R said, “You with the red knee socks!  You are in trouble!”  He was so confident that he had hard evidence, however, he knew nothing about sixth grade couture rules.  If red knee socks were the color of choice EVERY girl wore red knee socks.  Well we paraded out, lined up and looked at Mr. R....all of us wearing red knee socks.  He got that look again and just told us to go back to class. 

At this point I really did start to feel bad for him.  I made some feeble attempts to guide us back to actually learning something, but to no avail.  The turning point for me was the day someone suggested we have a fruit roll for Mr. R.   

Back in the day schoolchildren would all bring a piece of fruit to school and, on cue, would roll the fruit up to the teacher.  It was supposed to communicate appreciation and even affection.  A fruit roll for Mr. R?  I was suspicious but thought perhaps someone decided we should be nice to him for a change.  When we got to school that day, the ringleader told us the real plan.  On cue, we would throw the fruit at Mr. R instead of rolling it.  Well, I went along with it.  I was hesitant, but what sixth grader wants to be ostracized? 

The tension in the air was electric.  We were all acting quite nice to Mr. R to, I suppose, lull him into a false sense of security.  On cue, we all stood up with our fruit of choice in our hands.  

 This moment in my memory plays in slow motion for me.  I looked up at Mr. R, who had seen the fruit and had actually started to smile.  In that moment I saw Mr. R for the first time.  He was a teacher trying to insert knowledge into our thick skulls.  His eyes spoke volumes.  He was finally being appreciated.  

 I started to smile too, when I realized that our plan was not what he expected.  I wanted to scream, “stop” but my mouth would not work.  In the next moment, with fruit flying past him and smashing onto the blackboard his expression changed to one of deep sadness. It looked mostly like anger, but I saw hurt too.  I was devastated.  What had I done?  I should have stopped it, or at least objected.  I stood there with the orange in my hand and slowly sat down.  Mr. R saw my orange and our eyes met.  

It didn’t matter that I had not thrown it at him.  I had intended to do so.  I became acutely aware of just how much we need to pay attention to the consequences of our actions.  While the other students laughed and cheered, I began to cry.  I had hurt someone and it would take a long time for me to forgive myself for doing so.

We were punished, but Mr. R never told anyone outside our classroom what had happened.  He was probably embarrassed.  I did, however, tell my mom what we had done.  She made me write an apology letter to Mr. R. 

I think it was the only one he got.

I think I also got punished at home, although, I cannot remember.  The punishment of having to remember the hurt in his eyes was more than enough for me.

One More Memory....The Hair Wars

 Mom thought "straight stringy hair" looked awful so she frequently made me get "perms."  I distinctly remember my last trip to "Maxine's Hair Salon."  The beautician was affectionately known as Maxie.  She also sang for the Sweet Adeline's which was like a female barbershop quartet.  I loved that kind of harmony!

Anyway, on this last trip my mom had PROMISED that I could get a "body wave" instead of a "curly perm."   Well, that was a ruse to get me there and get a.....you guessed it, a curly perm.  I was furious!!

I smiled for the picture...not after

And, as if that was not bad enough, Mom thought bangs that were more than 1/4 inch in length looked atrocious so she frequently talked me into letting her "trim" them.  I believe this picture is, in fact THE LAST TIME I let her and her scissors near my hair.  :-)

My sixth grade picture would be the last evidence that perm.  My hair and perm solution would not meet again for a long, long time.  You will notice the look in my mom's eyes saying "I think I need to trim them a bit more."

I denied her that privileged.

If you will also notice I had teeth that needed straightened.  Those front teeth were a source of much teasing from my peers.  So I got braces.....more on that later. 

Telling the Story of Mrs.W.

I belong to a writers group that meets once a month.  I get a name tag that has "writer" written underneath.  The lovely woman who coordinates all of this for our group, "The Lord's Write Hands," sure knows how to make us all feel special.  Thanks Muriel.


In one of our meetings we were given an exercise that was meant to bring out more details and memories of a certain event in our lives.  Having just written "My Life on One Page" (more on that later) I chose fifth grade and Mrs. W.  After some preliminary listing of specific memories (right down to the big clock with the loudspeaker on top in the front of the room) I wrote this story.

The sun shining into the classroom made the colors of Mrs. W's dress come to life.  She always wore flowery dresses, even though she was definitely NOT the flowery type.  Her "sensible shoes" showed who she really was.  The "sturdy" part not the "support" part.

Her smile was not like my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. V.  Mrs. W's smile never quite made it to her eyes.

I, seated on the left side of the room, closest to the bright bank of windows, was following along the passage we were taking turns reading aloud.  When Mrs. W. called on me to take my turn I felt a rush of excitement.  Maybe now she would get to see how smart I was!  Mrs. V. told me I was smart, but Mrs. W. seemed to need proof....or something.

As I watch this scene unfold I begin reading and the other students turn to look at me.  I didn't think they did that when other children read but I might be mistaken.  Mrs. W's lips are pursed and her arms are folded across her chest.  Her eyes are looking straight at me.  I get a little nervous, but I'm smart!  I'll do fine and Mrs. W. will finally smile at me!

When I come to the name of the state of Maryland I read it as "Mary land."  I know, of course, how to pronounce the name of this state because my family and I had traveled there from Pennsylvania, but I had never seen it in print.

Mrs. W. barks a short laugh.  I look up to find her finally smiling, but the smile is all wrong.  Children around me are laughing.

"Mary...land!  Did you hear that?!" says Mrs. W.

I am a little embarrassed but decided to laugh with them at my mistake.  It was no big deal, right?  But, the more I smile the harder Mrs. W's eyes become.  I look at her, puzzled, not angry or humiliated.  She ends the exercise abruptly.

Was it after that event that I was moved to the darker side of the room where my head and that textbook were destined to meet?  I cannot recall.

To this day it saddens me to think that she never really got to know who I was.

*******
Overall, I LOVED school.  I loved reading and learning.  I always thought it was a great adventure.  Next year I would be in the sixth grade and what a year THAT was!  I'll tell you about it next Sunday!

Life at Lafayette Elementary

The World according to Mrs. W

I entered fifth grade at Lafayette Elementary School as Mifflin only went to fourth grade.  There were many more students, a bigger, school and many attitudes that were a mystery to me.  My fifth grade teacher seemed to take an immediate dislike to me.  I was not worried though.  Mrs. V had convinced me I was a great student and a great person.  Mrs. W would realize this eventually.

After a few months, though, I got worried.  Mrs. W regularly seemed to intentionally embarrass me.  I dismissed this idea immediately.  I believed no teacher would do such a thing.  I was probably being too sensitive.  I sat beside a little girl who never talked and struggled with everything.  I now realize that I was seated on the “stupid” side of the classroom.  It turns out that Miss V thought I was quite smart so she had insisted that I be placed in Mrs. W’s classroom.  Mrs. W did not agree for reasons you will hear later. 

I discovered that this girl loved to read too.  She and I would talk about books and stories we liked, including our favorite parts.  Pippi Longstocking was a definite favorite.  When it came time to do book reports, my friend panicked.  It seems that she knew what she wanted to say, but she could not get it down onto paper.  I immediately thought of a solution.  She would tell me what to write and I would write it for her.  It was a great plan!  I now know that my friend probably had a learning disability.  It would be my first experience with a person with a disability and it definitely would not be my last.

A few days later, Mrs. W came down our row of desks.  I was happy to see her as she spent very little time on our side of the room.  She stopped between our desks and asked my friend, “Who wrote this!?”  As she asked this question she waved the girl’s book report in her face.  My friend was obviously terrified so I piped up and said, “I did.” 

I was about to explain what had happened when Mrs. W picked up a textbook that was on my desk and hit me on the side of the head with it.  Textbooks are heavy!  It hurt and the pain was not just physical.  I looked up at her and saw such anger that I decided it was futile to explain.  Then another emotion took over.  I was quite sure that she was not allowed to hit kids in the head with textbooks so I became angry.  I calmly rose from my desk and headed for the cloakroom to get my jacket and my lunchbox, intending to leave school and go home.  She shrieked at me to get back to my seat but I kept going.  I arrived home shaken, angry and confused.  A small part of me still believed all she had to do was get to know me and everything would be fine.

When I told my mom, she got that look on her face and said she would take care of it. I stayed home the next day while she met with the Principal and Mrs. W.  When she came home she told me it was all worked out and that Mrs. W would never again hit or humiliate me.  I thought, “Wow, how did you do that?” but I just said thanks.

Mrs. W was never again rude to me, but it as clear she still did not like me.  However, I still had the confidence that Miss V had given me and I did not care.  I even thought about what she was missing by not getting to know me.  Ah, to return to the innocence of youth!

Years later I learned what had transpired in that meeting.  It turns out that most of the kids from Mifflin were from a less affluent part of town than most of the students.  We were known as the “Pearl Street kids.”  It was not a compliment. 

My mother told her that if she, or anyone else, referred to my friends or me as the Pearl Street kids again there would be more trouble than they ever dreamed of.  It was also stipulated that if Mrs. W ever again humiliated me or laid a hand on me she would be back and it would not be pleasant. 

My beautiful mom :-)

Way to go mom!  Zorro couldn’t have done it better himself!

And, by the way, it seems that the boy from the fourth grade Safety Patrol incident was a “Pearl Street kid” geographically speaking, but his family was full of sports stars that the high schools loved, so he was exempt. 

Mifflin Elementary School Children

..... aka “Those Pearl Street Kids”

(Truth and Consequences re-visited)

Mifflin Elementary School on Pearl Street

Second grade was uneventful.  Third grade was memorable only because I could not believe a teacher could be so grumpy and take all the fun out of learning.  I just kept my head down and eventually got to fourth grade and Miss Valudes.  She was the kind of teacher we all dream about.  She made everything fun and made you feel your efforts were the best she had ever seen.  It was that way with all of her students.  She was also Greek, so it was exciting to meet someone who was different from everyone I knew.  I loved hearing about her life.

In fourth grade, I received the honor of becoming a member of the safety patrol.  We wore white belts with a sash and a badge!  The only thing better would have been a cape and a horse!  We were in charge of seeing children safely across the busy intersection when they came to school and when they left.  A special unit of the safety patrol was also put in charge of the intersection at noon when the morning Kindergarteners left and the afternoon Kindergarteners arrived.  We actually walked many blocks to school by ourselves back then, even the five year olds!  I became a member of this special unit and was I proud! 

One day one of my classmates asked if he could take my shift that day at noon, as he would not be there the next day when he was scheduled.  I switched days with him and went about my school day.  At approximately one o’clock I was called into the hall by the principal.  She asked me why I had abandoned my duty as safety patrol a noon.  There was only one student each day so that meant the intersection was not covered.  I explained that Jimmy had traded days with me and that he should have been there.  She said, “We’ll see about that” and left to get Jimmy. 

When she returned with him, I was not worried at all.  I believed he would clear everything up.   However, to my surprise he said we had not changed days; that I was lying.  I was shocked.  I reminded him of our discussion but he insisted it had never happened.  It became clear that the principal believed Jimmy and not me.  I could not understand why she thought I was lying.  Didn’t she know I could not lie?  I was stripped of my belt and my badge on the spot.  I was in shock.  I returned to class and Miss V asked me what had happened.  I told her and she left the room to talk to the principal.  She returned with a sad, and somehow angry look on her face.  She said there was nothing she could do.  I did not care, though, because the next thing she said took the sting out of the incident.  She said, “I believe you.  You would not lie about a thing like this.”  I also figured that Jimmy must have had a good reason for lying.  Maybe there was more than one “Mrs. Crazy.” 

Later that week I overheard my parents talking about the incident.  I could not hear exactly what they were saying, but I did hear the phrase “Pearl Street kids” a couple of times.  I had no idea what this meant until I entered fifth grade at a new school.

Me in 2nd Grade

3rd Grade (I think this is the only time the teacher smiled all year)

Fourth Grade

The house where I grew up on Ruby Street

My First Grade Teacher was a Genius!

I don’t even remember my first grade teacher’s name but I do remember that she was brilliant!  I had not gone to Kindergarten, as there was no Kindergarten class where we had lived.  Looking back, I believe I didn’t go because my mom couldn’t let me go.  However, that’s OK.  I had Miss Francis, Zorro, and Lucille Ball to teach me about life.

Anyway, when I got to first grade I was absolutely thrilled.  School was so great.  There were books, other kids, art supplies, and a water fountain!  I read my report card from first grade the other day.  The teacher comments went from “Karen is really enjoying school and participates in all subject areas” to “Karen needs to talk less” and finally to “I am wondering if Karen wants to go to second grade.”  I must have driven her nuts!  However, half way through the year she discovered my great imagination and put my non-stop talking to good use.  I was put in charge of a daily puppet show for the Kindergarten classes.  I played all the parts, wrote the script, and performed my original stories with glee.  I didn’t really write a script, I did what I now know is “improvisation.”  I let the kids’ reactions dictate where the story went.  I was a future storyteller in the making!

School then became a joy for both of us.  I looked forward to school every day.  Every part of it was an adventure.  I did not, however, look forward to lunchtime.  The food they served in the lunchroom was a little too adventurous for me.  I was the quintessential picky eater.  I found a way around this by leaving school, walking home and making myself a couple of pieces of molasses bread with white Wonder Bread and King Syrup. 

I did this every day until one day my mom came home unexpectedly from work and found me standing on the counter reaching for the can of King Syrup. She asked me why I was at home.  “I don’t know” had, as I said, become unacceptable so I said I had come home to get my jump rope.  As soon as I said it, I realized the flaw in this story; we did not keep jump ropes in the food cabinet with the King Syrup.  

She sat me down and asked me to explain.  I told her I did not like the food in the lunchroom so I came home every day.  She asked me what I had done with the quarter she had given me every day for lunch.  I told her I gave it to someone else each day before I left.  So, she marched me back to school and paid in advance for my lunches and ordered me to never leave school again and for goodness sake at least try the food.  It turned out that some of the food was pretty good, but some of it was really gross.  Remember, “Spiced apple rings?”  Apples formed into perfectly round segments with a hole in the middle that were dyed bright red.  I don’t think anyone ever ate them.  All of them are probably still intact in a landfill somewhere. 

I made it through first grade and did move on to second grade due to the efforts of that great teacher.  However, with second grade came a move to a different town.  Just when I had the whole school thing figured out everything changed.  But that’s what makes life exciting and teaches us the things we need to learn.  :-)