There have been several postings about how we are shaped by our school day experiences in permanent ways. Several of the most recent blogs have been about the impact that certain teachers have had on their lives. I echo these sentiments, with special kudos to Mrs. Riddle (1st Grade), the fabulous Miss Westbrook (4th Grade) and the incomparable Frau Scoble (10th Grade German). I cherish the continuing relationship I still have with Frau Scoble; I still struggle to call her "Barbara" when we meet. She's thrilled I have now become a teacher.
The more curious case was my Sixth Grade teacher. Our class was, back in the days of shameless tracking, the "A" class. It was embarrassingly obvious how the classes were designated, even to eleven year-olds. It's all we talked about the first few weeks of school. In their infinite wisdom, Buri-Buri Elementary simply dropped five portables on the playground and stocked them with tracked classes, A, B, C, D, F, in descending order. My heart ached for the kids at the far end of the Sixth Grade row, already labeled "losers" in the game of life.
The rarified atmosphere of the "A" class was tainted only by our new, untested teacher, Mrs. Adams. The "B" kids had the young pretty, fun Miss Jones. Adams was taciturn, middle-aged and altogether way too serious. She seemed to have a very short temper and little tolerance for boys. The girls were kinder, but that was no surprise. They gathered about her desk before the first bell like little chicks flocking about the hen; the boys huddled in the back by the coat closets, engrossed in the latest exploits of Mays, Marichal, McCovey and the San Francisco Giants.
One Monday morning I arrived to find classmates in a semi-circle on the classroom porch. Nail-etched graffiti scored the new yellow door with three or four epithets directed at Mrs. Adams. When she arrived moments later, the embarrassed class parted. Our teacher was face-to-face with the defaced door of her new classroom, now a billboard of venomous ridicule. I will never forget seeing her usual pallor flush suddenly, violently scarlet when she spied the insult. Inside the classroom, the chicks clustered about their wounded hen, while the boys retreated to their huddle eyeing one another and questioning, "Who did it?" The playground was open and used by anyone on the weekends, but who would bother with such a mean prank--other than one of Mrs. Adams' own students?
"Mr. Morris," came the chilling voice of our teacher. "Mr. Jensen is expecting you in his office." Mr. Jensen was our vice-principal, notorious for his resemblance to "Lurch" from the "Addams Family" TV show. He was the discipline guy; I had never been to his office, not even once.
"But why...?"
"
Now," came the icy blast. She retreated to her desk without ever having looked at me. I collected my coat and slunk to the Office.
"Do you know why you're here?" Mr. Jensen didn't look at me either. He was rolling up his sleeves already. My eyes darted about the room, finally spotting the infamous paddle in the corner.
"Well...yes," I answered. It was painfully obvious, and about to get physically painful.
"Okay, then. Take off your coat and come around here..."
"But I didn't do it!"
Mr. Jensen lurched backwards. "What do mean...you didn't do it?"
"I saw the stuff on the door, same as everyone else. That's all. I don't know why Adams sent me here." Other than a foursome of older siblings who had very mixed reputations as students, that is. I, on the other hand, was the academic of the family. Other than precociousness that manifested itself in repeatedly correcting my teachers on their historical facts, I was never a trouble-maker.
"Your teacher recognized your handwriting," the old, smug Mr. Jensen replied.
My handwriting? It was some scratching with a penny nail, or maybe a spike. Printed, too--I never printed after I learned cursive--so how would she even know my printing? I thought quickly, "You better not touch me. My mother needs to be here." He froze. The Mom Card had been played. I'd waited years for this moment.
My mother was rarely able to stop my father's belt in time to save me, though I rarely gave him reason for a whipping. But at school, my mother was a force to be reckoned with, known and loved by all. She'd been PTA president twice and room mother for each of her five kids, several times each. When she arrived, she had only one question for me: "Did you know anything at all about this?" I was saved by the truth.
Mrs. Adams never apologized, which I couldn't understand. Everybody makes mistakes. I felt sorry for her, to have her first month with her dream class soiled that way. She turned out to be a very different kind of teacher, not great, but very interesting and I was sad to see the year end in June.
Buri-Buri School was on my way home from junior high, so I stopped in occasionally to say hi and peruse Mrs. Adams' great collection of books. She appreciated my visits, but her emotional distance remained. I tried to see her once after I started high school, but Mrs. Adams had moved on to another school in a distant town. I was disappointed, because the true culprit had finally revealed himself; I think she would have liked to have some closure.
I had bumped into an old friend named Kirk when I walking home from football practice on a day that my ride left early. We'd been classmates in Fourth and Fifth Grades, but come the Sixth, Kirk was demoted to the "C" class. We stayed friends for a couple more years after that, but lasting friendship was ultimately a casualty of our divergent paths. My old buddy was working on his motorcycle in his driveway that afternoon when our eyes met. He called me over, even offered me a beer, but it didn't seem like the time or place for my first beer. We quickly ran out things to say. We stood there awkwardly, looking across the street at the elementary school playground. You could still see the pecking order laid out from the haves to the have-nots, A to F. I was searching for the right exit line when Kirk finally spoke up. "Hey," he said, jerking his head toward the distant line of classroom portables, "Remember that old Mrs. Adams?"