(This is me in Sept 1963. The jumper is dark green cordouroy and the blouse is the same green striped on white. The curls are the courtsey of my pink sponge rollers. The band-aid could have been from any number of activities – I did everything fast and with enthusiasm – band-aids were a normal part of my life.)
I thought school was the greatest social club every invented. I’d get to wear nice clothes, play with my friends, and do my other favorite things: read and write.
Kindergarten was great. We played, we snacked, had show and tell, colored, and went home. What’s not to love?
I should have known first grade was going to be a challenge the day I met Teacher. Mom took me in and the lady behind the desk asked me some questions about how far I could count (to 100), what words I could read (more than she expected), and what my favorite color was (lavender). Things got a little tense when she asked me how many colors I had in my box. My delighted answer: 64. Her eyebrows raised, she clicked her tongue, and shook her head at me.
I smiled. I was so happy to be there.
On the way home, Mom suggested I keep my reading and writing skills quiet until after Teacher had taught them. I agreed and then because it made no sense to me, I forgot.
One day I arrived at school feeling especially full of life. My desk started out in it’s normal place in the row, but in the course of the day traveled to beside Teacher’s desk, the corner, and the coathall. I finally ended up sitting on the cold floor in the hallway. I was told loud whispers, writing on the wall, and singing out loud in the coat hall were not acceptable behaviors.
It only took me a second to notice the other kids in the hallway. Three of them. Just the right number for a quick game of tag. Things were going well, until the other kids (who werre far more experienced at hall sitting than I was) returned at top speed to their doors.
Before I could ask them why, a large, but gentle hand rested on shoulder. My principal asked me what I was doing. I turned to him as if announcing great news and said, “We were playing tag!”
Okay – so that wasn’t acceptable either. While waiting for my mom to come and have a talk with Mr. Carlson and me, I watched Teacher explain the behavior he’d missed. She shook her finger at me as she passed and the secretary ushered me into the glass walled office. I asked if he was going to spank me, (they could do that in the way olden days) and I watched amazed as he tried very hard not to smile at me. His eyes danced with the same kind of mischief I felt coursing through my veins.
He said,”No, I’ll leave that to your parents.”
That sounded better than getting the black paddle whacked on my bottom in that office where anyone walking by could see me getting punished.
Mom came in and I admitted to my various escapades and was told they would be dealt with when I got home. Back in the classroom, I found my desk in a new position: Up front by the chalkboard. I watched carefully as Teacher wrote the numbers 1 – 10 on the board. Then, she pointed to each number and said, “One, two, TREE. . .” I had no idea I was going to laugh out loud until I heard myself. Her dentures didn’t fit well and her “th’s” came out as “ts.” I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.
I was appropriately punished at home and gave my solumn promise to be a good girl. The sad part was my reputation had been established and if someone else whispered loudly, Teacher often assumed it was me. It got so bad, Daddy had to come to school and talk to her about it. So did Mr. Carlson. Although she blamed me for a lot of things I didn’t do, I still did plenty, but the difference was, I was willing to “own up” to my actions. Mama was teaching me that telling the truth was very important for good girls and I was working very hard on my “good degree.”
Except on those days when mischief ran in my veins. Then, I’d carefully weigh the pros and cons of being naughty: if I do this, this will happen. Often, I decided the punishment was worth it.
On the last day of school, Teacher hugged and kissed me and told me, “I’m retiring because of you. I will never teach again. Your second grade teacher has been warned about you. I hope she has a better year than I did. I love you.”
I cried the whole way home. I worked even harder on being good that summer. I also felt something change inside me. Yes, I know I needed the discipline and I don’t blame any of the adulits in my life who had to apply it in one form or another. I’m grateful for their love and investment in me.
The change was the blame and shame that bruised my spirit. Learning that had once been easy,was immediately hindered. It was as if a metal door had been slammed shut in my brain. Being a good girl (defined by sitting still at all times - which meant no twirling or dancing – and being quiet) took a lot of energy as I struggled to be who I wasn’t. I still loved school and my friends, but the delight learning once brought was gone.
I ran into Teacher years later, when I was sixteen and working in the women’s department of our Tempo store. I was so glad to see her, certain she’d forgiven me in the tens years since I’d seen her, I told her who I was. Instead, she made it clear she still blamed me for ending her teaching career. She shook her finger at me, clicked her tongue again and said, “Be good!” She also refused to let me help her find what she was looking for.
I cried as I drove myself home that night carrying that old blame and shame on my shoulders.The metal door that had started to re-open, slammed shut again and I barely passed my tests the next day although I’d studied hard and knew the answers. Would I ever be good enough?
When I met her again at sixteen, I’d also just become a born-again Christian and was experiencing the wonder of God’s forgiveness. I’m sad, because I’ve learned she never forgave me. That is probably the most valuable thing Teacher taught me: forgiveness is a choice.
It really is amazing how one very good oh so awful bad day in first grade can impact your life.
Thanks for letting me share this Legacy story with you. Do you have one from your life you’d like to share? Email me joydekok57@gmail.com and put “Legacy” in the subject line.
Joy
Joy DeKok
Author of the newly released eBook, Your Life, a Legacy
Available HERE
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