I bet that gym teacher couldn't spell "synecdoche" if her life depended on it
March 15, 2012
In third grade, I apparently became…soulful. Pensive. "Followed by a moonshadow," if you will.
My teacher was Miss Miranda, and she was above reproach. She was kind, encouraging, and pretty. In my memory, I was taught by Snow White.
Third grade was the year we began having Spelling Bees, and if there's one thing I was good at, it was spelling. I won every freaking Bee. That much I remember.
But what is happening in the class photo? Why was I put in the bottom row, where I towered over my shrimpy classmates? Why am I so spooked? Was I seeing a ghost? Why were the ghosts only visible to me? Were the ghosts responsible for scrawling highlighter all over this photo? Where am I?
I've always remembered myself as a genius student, so looking at my report card for the first time in many years is awfully illuminating. I might have been secretly brilliant, but in third grade I was merely competent. Miss Miranda might as well have scrawled MEH across the whole thing. (Except for Spelling (AND THE BEES!), that is. )
Then again, nothing stands out as especially negative. Nope, nothing at all! Just all the same. Nothing standing out here.
Wait, what's this?
OH YES NOW I REMEMBER. Third grade was the year I met Miss Tobin, My Gym Teacher/Nemesis. Miss Tobin, who taught me what "uncoordinated" meant, and then taught me that I was That Word. Miss Tobin, who regularly pointed out my lack of competency/coordination to the rest of the class, and then berated me for coming up with imaginary illnesses that put me in the sidelines. Miss Tobin, who would regularly ask me why I couldn't be more like Franny, or Jenny, or Allison, or hell anyone else, because I was pretty much the worst she had ever seen!
Look how angrily scrawled those Ns are. I'm picturing Miss Miranda, perched near a window, bluebirds alighting on her, as they did, and she's filling in my grades, maybe singing a little song. That's when Miss Tobin bounds through the door, hurdles all the desks, shoves Miss Miranda off her stool and grabs the report card--suddenly overcome with the knowledge that her previous assessment of "S" wasn't going to send an important message to that Alice Bradley, her EIGHT-YEAR-OLD NEMESIS. Alice needs Ns! AND A U! A U!
I really enjoyed reading about all your second grade teachers. Now it's time for third grade. Keep it up, class!
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Reader Comments (45)
I also have that 'but I was a GENIUS' memory of myself. Standardized test scores. Amirite? Responsible for many a young girl's grad school folly probably.
Gosh, you were a terribly beautiful child. Maybe the gym teacher was ugly and jealous of your winsome beauty.
Ah, third grade. I went to a new school. Mrs. Terranova, in her bright blue dress and white sweater, welcomed me with her sweet perfume and frosted wig and open arms. I loved her! She told everyone to say hi to me on the first day, and they did! Clearly she had powers. After about two weeks into my new school, at the end of the day when we'd line up to walk to our buses, this boy--Danny Harris--would chase me in a menacing way. It scared the hell out of me. I learned to run fast from the line to the bus, circling my groovy purse-like lunchbox (The Pussycats) over my head like a helicopter blade. It worked to keep Danny at bay until I could get on the bus (panting). After a few days of this helicoptering maneuver, I realized this was no way to live. I sheepishly told Mrs. Terranova about Danny's aggressive behavior. She could see that I was scared, and she promised me she would talk to him. It made me love her more.
She called me up to her desk the next day to tell me Danny wasn't going to chase me anymore. I told her I didn't know why he didn't he like me because I hadn't done anything to him. And she smiled and said that it was because he DID like me.
So. When I tell this story, people have a hard time believing it. Mainly because it was the early nineties and I grew up in Tampa, FL, where, as my dad always said/says, you have to drive north to get South (changes in capitalization intentional).
My third grade teacher was extremely racist. Very. Seriously. I, like you, have a good memory. And I remember her telling us on the first day of school that she had been teaching 26 years--I remember this because it seemed weird that she needed to tell a class of 8- and 9-year-olds that information.
So, once she figured out who the smart kids in class were (some of us had been placed in gifted that year), she sat us in the back of the classroom. Not because she had anything against smart kids. No, she paired each on of us with a black kid. Seriously, we were all in the back row. And I say seriously so much here because it truly is hard to believe that this happened.
When she did this, she took the smart white kids aside and told us that it was our job to make sure they paid attention in class and that if they didn't we should kick them under the desk.
At 8, I knew there was something not quite right about that situation. So James, "my black kid", became one of my best friends that year. I also gave him the answers on tests.
A few years ago, my mom and I were talking about this particular teacher and she told me about a parent-teacher conference they had. The teacher informed my mom, with much concern, that at recess I didn't sit and chat with the other little girls in my class. Instead I ran around and played with all the little (whispered) black boys. She felt that my mom needed to know this so that she could reprimand me and change my recess behavior.
My mom, who grew up in the segregated Deep South, politely informed the teacher that she was glad I ran around with the boys at recess. It was recess. I was 8, I needed to run around and get out the pent up energy. She also told the teacher that she and my father were raising me to see each person as a person and not their skin color.
Teacher = 0; Me and my family = 2.
I didn't meet my gym nemesis until 6th grade. Mrs.Barefield. She loved to shout at me by my last name and make me do stuff in front of the class as an example of what NOT to do.
I don't recall my third grade home room teacher but I remember my math teacher. Steel gray hair, frown lines and a penchant for mourning the banning of corporal punishment. She certainly instilled in me the fear of ever writing an eight improperly!
Mr. Bonham was my 3rd grade teacher. I don't remember much about him except that I thought he was painfully cute. I was so enamored with my very first male (!) teacher that I spent the majority of each day giggling endlessly at awkwardly inappropriate moments and passing notes to Misty Campbell containing such gems as, "Mr. B just SMILED. YYYYYIIIIIIIKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEESSS." Misty and I were not in the gifted group, obviously.
can i just say this is one of the most FUN series of blog posts ever and while i will probably be running into therapy as a result of all the memories its dredging up for me, i just adore this forum for your particualr brand of genius and wit.
thanks so much for sharing and for brightening up the last few days with your insights. i look forward to the learning more about the rest of your acadmeic career. you are awesome.
Third grade for me was Mrs. King. I remember her being fun. She was really into Africa, and one day we had an Africa day where we put up tents in the field behind our school and pretended we were nomads. She also had this scheme where, whenever we had really good behavior, we would get rewarded with "money" (much like Schrute bucks, I imagine). At the end of the year, there was an auction where we got to buy stuff with the money--I have no idea where it all came from, it was just ridiculous stuff like toys and books but it was fun!
I also learned my multiplication tables. We learned about the states, and had to interview someone from our assigned state. Mine was Missouri, and I didn't know anyone from there except Mrs. King's husband. So I had to CALL him, on the PHONE (this was excruciating). He was very kind, and I will always remember that Missouri is the "Show Me" state.
I had Ms P., who my sister had had two years before. Only when my sister had her, she was Mrs. C. She would address the class as "People" (pronounced PEEE-pul), and yelled constantly. I found out later that not only had she gotten divorced right after my sister finished third grade, she'd found out that her husband (a priest) was having an affair with the church organist when he stood up in church and announced to the entire congregation that he was leaving her. So I guess I can't really blame her for not having any patience for a room full of third graders.
Also this is the year that the mean lunch lady pulled me out of the cafeteria and yelled at me for "making fun" of my friend Tom. But the thing is, he was my best friend, and we were just fooling around. The injustice still rankles.
Grade 3, '51-'52 - Mrs. Richtenberg - classroom pretty much an exact duplicate of Ralphie's in 'A Christmas Story' - There I am at my desk wearing my white baseball t-shirt with the fierce team name scripted on the front, METRO RETAIL FLORISTS.
Ah, I wish I'd seen the earlier posts! I have a strangely good memory of all of my teachers from kindergarten on, but mainly because the K teacher was fat and smelly (to my 5 year-old mind) and I didn't like her.
In third grade I had Mrs. McGennis. She had perfect hair that looked the same every day, and we all suspected she wore a wig. She had a Southern drawl and was very, very kind, had perfect third grade teacher penmanship, and showed boring film strips about Eskimos and Indians. Third grade was the year we learned about colonial times and if you were in Mrs. McGennis' class, you did the giant diorama of the New England Town. I still remember I had the blacksmith and I made his shop out of an old grade school milk carton with pots and pans out of aluminum foil. Miss White, the other teacher, was older and stricter, but she somehow was more fun. Her class did the Southern Plantation.
With learning about Colonial times, we got to visit the Genesee County Museum, one of those terrific historical places that actually is built like a New England town, complete with people dressed in period costume that showed you how the people lived. Best. Field trip. EVER. Of course, we all loved the fact that when we had lunch they let us roll down the hill near the picnic tables. Nothing like tiring out kids for the bus!
A few years ago, Mrs. McGennis retired. My husband actually had her as a teacher as well (two years ahead of me), and we went to her retirement party. She told us that in 37 1/2 years of teaching, we were one of two couples she'd ever had from all of her students. I'm strangely proud of that. And her hair still looks almost exactly the same.
3rd grade was Ms. Cohen(the dark side) and Ms. Baker (all things good). Ms. Cohen did nothing but flirt with our Art teacher, Mr. Marley who would eventually be arrested and taken away. Ms. Cohen wouldn't have a job the next year because our learning included looking up words in the dictionary every day and playing the quiet game. I wanted to give her a 'Be ye kind' poster with a bunny on it, but my mother advised against the New Testament gift to a Jewish teacher. I still had a lot to learn.
Oh, my gosh, Pronunciation Manual is hilarious! Loved schadenfreude.
Third grade was Mrs. Vickers, who was a mere wisp taller than us and angry that the universe had delivered short red hair instead of the flowing blonde locks she felt she deserved. We paid the price for her elfin stature and stubbly mane, of course.
Third grade was the year I learned that I was a horrible person. I learned this when Mr. Latka gave me the only D's I ever got on any report card up through grad school. On every report card, he gave me THREE. One was in handwriting, which whatever. But the other two have stuck with me forever--Responsibility and Uses Time and Materials Wisely. Nothing like being branded lazy and irresponsible in third grade!
My third and fourth grade teacher (same person for 2 years in a combined class) was an alcoholic. I of course didn't know this at the time, but she would do the strangest things. Like stand on her desk with her hand on her heart inside her shirt to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. One time she even marched during the recitation and then saluted. She would read a chapter book aloud to us and rip out the page of the book after she was finished reading it and crumple it up and throw it over her shoulder. She also went into a rage when we didn't put the art supplies away correctly in the art cabinet and she threw every single thing in the cabinet into the garbage as we all watched in horror. Some of the things were our finished art projects, some were brand new unopened packets of paper and pencils and some were glass babyfood jars of paint that she spiked so hard into the metal trashcan that they shattered. I remember thinking that I was going to go into the trash and get the unopened supplies to take home so they would not go to waste and then when the glass shattered over them I thought, "there goes that plan." My most embarrassing moment in my life happened in 4th grade. I must have worn my jeans a second day without them being washed because to my utter horror a pair of my underwear dropped out of the leg of them onto the floor as I was walking in my classroom. Before I could pick them up, the class bully got them and showed the whole class. I tried to lie and deny they were mine but my teacher, instead of scolding the bully for interrupting class to tease me, pointed out that my name was written on them in permanent marker! I wanted to die.
But it was also the first year my sister was also at my elementary school with me. She was in 1st grade which was across campus, maybe 3 football fields away from my 4th grade classroom. One day she just walked into my classroom, right over to me and asked me if I could help her find her classroom. I didn't even ask permission, I just walked out of my class in the middle of a lesson and took her to her classroom. My teacher called me aside when I got back and I thought I was going to be in big trouble. She told me she thought I did a very nice thing for my sister and that she was proud of me. Later that day at lunch she walked me to the teacher's lounge and bought me a pepsi out of the machine and I got to sit there with all the grown ups and drink it. It was one of my best memories ever! I just felt so recognized and special. How weird is that?!
Later when I was much older my parents told me she left teaching after our class to go into rehab. Then it all made sense!
In 3rd grade, I had a long shag haircut, cut by one of my mother's friends. I guess it was supposed to be fashionable at the time, but by the time class pictures came around, it looked pretty clunky. I wore a pretty dress, though.
My 3rd-grade teacher, Mrs Fleming, was not enamored of me. She had a frosted beehive and never smiled. She could be pretty harsh, and I think my parents were aware that I was having a hard time with her. Once we had a reading circle quiz with only two questions. I got only one answer right, and she considered 50% failing. I thought that was hugely unfair. Why not ask more questions to give us a better chance? Also problematic was her insistence on not interrupting reading group. Once I had to go to the bathroom very badly, and every time I approached her about going to the bathroom, she'd glare at me and reproach me for bothering her. Out of desperation, I finally peed in my seat, which so impressed my fellow students that I suffered years of scorn and derision and social stigma that lasted until I left the state, Thanks So Much Mrs Fleming. I seem to remember her trying to salvage the situation by lecturing us on the proper term for pee. My mother was a nurse, so I was the only one who knew the term in question was "urine," further cementing my timidity and weirdness in 3rd grade society. Good times.
I don't remember it as a happy time, but I think there were some high points.
-I had a best friend, Becca, who then alas moved to DC with her family mid year.
-Once Mrs Fleming gave me the one and only "E" (A equivalent) for art in the classroom, and some other parents protested their children's lack of Es. I totally threw off the whole grading curve, there.
-I remember we all made paper roses to make a large "blanket of roses" for the Ky Derby, and we drew lots to see who would take it home.
-Another time, we were supposed to ask our parents where our ancestors came from so we could put pins on a map, which prompted a fascination with Germany and ancestors. That was cool.
Third grade was a disaster. Fresh off my parents splitting up, I get stuck with Mrs. Lubben. She loved math, hated art and music. I got caught sticking books I'd rather read inside my math book. Unsurprisingly, I ended up with a D- in math and a comment on my report card deeming me a "challenging" student because I questioned when, if ever, I would need to divide things in real life without having a calculator handy.
My third grade teacher called my parents and told them I was going to be a juvenile delinquent. I came home to my mother sobbing and not wanting to talk to me about it until my father came home. I thought someone had died. Oddly, my best guess was that it was my grandmother's very old Chihuahua mix, Missy. I swear I am not making that up. I hated my third grade teacher even though I never had any problem before or after her until seventh grade. She wouldn't put me in the highest reading group because she didn't like me, which made me just surly. The day of the phone call, she had been passing out Math Bingo cards for us to play while we waited for the afternoon dismissal. I didn't want to play, so I kept putting my card on someone else's desk. She'd put down another card, I'd put it on another desk. After the third one, my friend told me I should stop or I would hurt her feelings. My reply? "She doesn't have any feelings. She's not a human being. She's just a teacher. Even though I loved every teacher I had before and after her in elementary school. Did I mention I am a teacher now? But high school. Elementary is for masochists.
My elementary PE teachers always hated me. I was pale, bookish and had great disdain for anything that made me perspire. I consider it one of my greatest accomplishments that I managed to graduate from high school without taking PE.
I want to leave more comments here, but I'll begin with this:
I want to beat Ms. Tobin up.
Who's uncoordinated now.
I was told I was uncoordinated too.
I can remember the alarmed arched eyebrows as the gym teacher fuhreaked out as she yelled out to my mother "SHE CAN"T EVEN SKIP!"
Oh, so what. Of course, that's not what I thought.
What I thought and felt was shame.
Way to go, Ms Tobin's of the world.