school memories

When I was in first grade, they started me out in the advanced reading group, probably because my older brothers had tested as gifted. Two weeks or so into the year, without being told, I was bumped down into a slower group, and apparently the teacher actually told my mother that she would have to accept that I would never be as smart as my older brothers. She and one of the other teachers/vice principals or something actually tried to tell my mother that I was at least semi-retarded. (It actually turns out that I had the highest IQ of the four of us.)

In all honesty, I can say that the only thing I'm grateful to Mrs. Hlavsa for is that she did teach me how to read. The rest of first grade was a nightmare where I would do anything to get out of class. I peed my pants so regularly that it was almost a drill; I lied and pretended to be sick on at least one occasion so I could leave school.

I guess I have to say I'm disappointed my parents never pushed to get me out of that woman's class, but to their credit they did make it absolutely clear that my younger brother was not to be put in her class under any circumstances two years later, even though that would have been the district's normal policy. (I think it had something to do with where children lived.) The only nice thing I can say about Mrs. Hlavsa is that she did teach me to read. She made me a nervous wreck and insisted I write with my left hand -- I'm right-handed -- so that to this day I still have a bad stammer when I get nervous or excited, but at least she taught me to read.

My big break came in second grade, when I got a decent teacher, and then was IQ tested, and then in third grade when Mrs. Cromer let us go at our own pace, as I mentioned earlier.

Something good about schools, to lighten the tone: In fourth grade, our teachers made an arrangement that involved rotating us to different classrooms for math, science and English. My math teacher was Mr. Ernett, a man who was generally good with students and didn't tolerate attitude or misbehavior.

One day as recess ended, Mr. Ernett saw me punching the boy in line in front of me, and pulled us both out. Darren Shumaker, who I had been hitting, claimed to have no idea why I punched him. When I explained that Darren had been picking on me nonstop all year, Mr. Ernett proceeded to chew him out for what seemed to me to be ages. His entire lecture to me was, "Don't ever do that again," followed by a stern warning to Darren that if he ever picked me again, Mr. Ernett was going to make him wish he had never been born.

That guy remains my favorite teacher to this day.