So I gave up, and as I got the kiddos ready for school, I read a terrific blog by Margo Candela titled Reading Made Me a Writer (linked below). In the blog, Candela wrote about what spurred her on to become a writer. Her description of her second grade teacher struck a cord within me. For I, too, had a cruel teacher in second grade. But while Candela remembers so many details of her abuser, I can't even recall my teacher's face, I only remember the feelings she invoked within me.
Fear, dread, nausea.
As a military brat I moved around a lot. And I mean a lot... three high schools in as many years, don't even get me started on junior high and grade school. To be honest, I couldn't tell you the actual number of schools I attended, I simply don't know. But I do remember second grade and the walk to school each day with my big sister. Sometimes I would beg her to stand outside the door and listen. Just listen. Please. A few times she did listen. I felt braver those days, less alone, knowing she hovered outside my classroom. Not that she could change anything...no one could.
I had the invisible voice of a child and was not heard when I asked for help. So I returned each day to that frightening classroom, where my 'teacher' had the unfortunate tendency to pick me up by the collar of my shirt and shake me. Most days it was because I was late, other days because I worked too slow. I was the only one treated this way. I was also the only one pulled from class for speech therapy every day. Apparently, moving back and forth across the ocean, over and over, had taken its toll on my articulation. But I was happy for it, I loved going to speech because it got me out of that classroom and into the hands of a woman who actually deserved to be around children. It was safe there in that small room, with it's kid sized crescent desk and tiny chairs.
Unfortunately, while I was away at speech therapy, my teacher would go over our math lesson for the day. I would return in time for the end of the lesson and found that most times I had to wing it, desperately studying the test, trying to find a connection in all the numbers. Needless to say, I made poor marks in math that year. Mine were the papers she held up. Big F's written in red for the entire class to see. It was humiliating. Actually, for a sensitive child such as myself, it was devastating.
In the classroom that was my hell, I remember a loft of sorts, set up in the corner of the room. I remember thinking it was like a small version of heaven. It had stairs similar to what one might find attached to a bunk bed, and at the top were cushions and soft places to sit. Students who had completed their work were allowed to go up there to read quietly while they waited for the others to finish. I longed to go up there too, and would find myself looking at that spot frequently throughout the day. At that young age I already had a love for books and reading, and that little nook called to me. A friend in the dark, a great place to hide. I struggled to catch up, always behind. And each day I would watch all the other students get their chance and think my time was coming. I worked harder than ever, but it seemed my teacher always had some math assignment she'd wave in my face that I hadn't completed to her satisfaction.
When my family moved mid-semester from England to California I was overcome with relief. I was crossing the ocean, getting away from her. Surely I'd never see that woman again for the rest of my life. And I was right. I left her behind. Yet, similar in a way to my dream last night, her presence remains within me still, lingering, a phantom thing of the past that once was.
I never did climb those stairs, I never sat on those cushions, and I never curled up with my favorite Judy Blume book there. But that's okay. I moved on to climb other stairs. With a future full of teachers who actually taught, I thrived. I took honors classes and was on the Dean's list. I graduated from college and married my college sweetheart and had children of my own. I'm whole and happy, and finally, after all these years, I have created my own nook.
