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.