Wednesday, May 1, 2013

That Old Mrs. Adams

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?"

8 comments:

  1. What a different story from the usual ones we hear of a teacher that made an impression on us. Neither good nor bad teacher, but still memorable.

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  2. I really liked your story about Mrs. Adams. We all had a teacher like that at some point.
    I went to Catholic school, first through eight grade. When I was in sixth grade we had a terrible teacher. He proclaimed to not believe in God (a no-no to voice aloud in Catholic school). During Easter vacation a friend and I visited the school and egged his door. Before the end of vacation, we felt so guilty we went back and cleaned it up. No one ever knew, but us.
    Two weeks before the end of the school year, our teacher was replaced by a sub. Rumor had it he was fired. I often wonder if he left on his own or really got fired, because the class continued to treat him so badly.

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  3. Through your writing I felt sad for Mrs. Adams and glad you had a mom who was engaged and proactive. But annoyed with Kirk. I think we all probably had a mix of teachers while in school. Good, bad, lazy, encouraging,mean and stern are a few I remember of the personality labels that come to mine and each one has a face attached. Their helpful for characterization while I am writing.

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  4. This story was very poignant. It's unfortunate the way wrong impressions, assumptions and uncorrected mistakes can erect barriers between people. I can relate to one of your problems; One of my favorite teachers was my sixth-grade teacher Mr. Walker. He insists I call him Terry now, but it's very difficult for me to do.

    Can I share a "principal's office" story? My 4th grade teacher was very fond of me, but I had my moments and one time I made her so mad that she wrote out a referral to the principal, folded it in half 3 times, then stapled it with a dozen staples around the outside of the little packet. She said "I'm doing this so that by the time the principal gets this open he'll be as mad at you as I am."

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  5. Dayvd, a well-written and interesting story. I'll agree, different from the usual kind we read about a teacher who made an impression on us. I felt sorry for Mrs. Adams, too.

    That tracking system was a horrible thing for everyone.

    Thank you. xoA

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  6. Is it enough to say ditto everyone's comments? Really, a fascinating teacher story...I wonder though as to whether the emotional barrier was truly there or was merely perceived. No way to know of course but I'd love to know her thoughts here, whether she felt the same distance that the narrator felt. Of course, I think you or the narrator you would like that window to her head too. Really nice piece.

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  7. In 5th grade the entire school was talking about the little 5th grade girl who challenged her teacher and made her retire after 40 years of teaching. The teacher that replaced that teacher never denied that was why the teacher retired. she just smiled at the girl that everyone said caused the teacher to quit.

    I always felt guilty. I never meant to make her quit. I was just a precocious little girl that refused to shut up and had no problem correcting teachers when they were wrong about facts.

    I also can relate to the mother card. My mother was feared in the school. After 9 kids they knew here pretty well. Great story.

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  8. Davyd -- Your writing brings me right back to that blacktop, and to my smugness of being in that "A" class. Mrs. Adams scared me the first time I saw her -- I thought she looked like a bulldog, and I figured she was probably very crabby. But through the year, I found her to be a fairly gentle soul, not scary -- but I agree, there was some aloofness. Two years after leaving her class, she was my 11-year old brother's teacher. He was tragically killed in an accident, that might have been a suicide. Mrs. Adams came to the funeral. I fell into her arms for a long time, and for some strange reason, her hug was the most comforting of all. That's my Mrs. Adams memory.

    Its good to hear that you are doing so well. Shame on me for being taken aback by your amazing writing. We share a lot of tender memories, you and I. With fondness, Laurie D.

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