Yes, we actually had those types of desks from the 1930s in our classrooms. Inkwell and all. I can’t discuss my early years without mentioning a few of my teachers. In second grade I had Miss Edgar, the quintessential leftover Victorian Era schoolmarm. She was second in age only to God. Very old and very wrinkled. Her hair was dyed jet black, she had on copious amounts of blue eyeshadow, her cheeks looked like the rosy cheeks of a clown doll, her lips were fire-engine red, and, I am not lying, she had a silver incisor. I think she put her makeup on with a cement trowel. She hated boys. I don’t know why, but she hated boys. Unfortunately for me, I happen to be a boy. She loved the girls. She treated them with all the deference her shriveled heart could muster. My cousin Kathy was two years older than me, and they had a mutual love. But my friend John and I got paddled every other day. I remember well a rainy day recess. We couldn’t go out to the playground, but Miss Edgar allowed us to go out on the front porch of the school. The front porch was maybe 12 feet by 30 feet. A wide set of about six steps led up to the neo-classical porch with large columns on either side. Of course we got rowdy and two kids starting playing keepaway with my baseball cap. One of them tossed it and it landed on the first step down from the porch. The first step. So my right foot went on the first step as I bent down and retrieved my cap. I would guess within 30 seconds Miss Edgar appeared, throwing open the outer doors of the school, grabbing me by the arm, and paddling me all the way down the 30 foot entrance hallway, turning left, and all the way down the final 30 feet to her room. And of course yelling, “I told you not to go off the porch” fifty or so times. Not too traumatizing for a seven-year-old.In third grade it was Mrs. McPherson. I can see her face plain as day. Older, rather plain, with the shorter permanent hairdo popular in the early 60s. The only problem with her was that she was a germophobe. Back then we used handkerchiefs. Granted, I wouldn’t be too fond of it now, but that is what everyone did. You kept a handkerchief in your back pocket. Well she caught me using it. She grabbed me by the arm, marched me down to the boys room, threw open the door, went to a toilet stall and forced me to flush the handkerchief down the toilet. Well, that’s not too traumatizing for an eight-year-old.At least my first, fourth, and fifth grade teachers were rather normal. Mrs. Kline, Mrs. Laurman, and Mrs. Bedogne. In sixth grade we had someone that I swear looked like Granny Clampett. She had gray hair and kept it in a tight bun like a pioneer woman and wore those little round-framed metallic glasses popular in the 1920s. Mrs. McIntosh was only there for about the three months or so of sixth grade, but in that short time she managed to make my life miserable. We had a session where were supposed to square dance. I was to be partnered with one of the sisters in our class who never bathed. I am not making fun of them for being poor, but as my mother used to say, “soap is cheap.” They didn’t smell, they reeked, so I refused to dance with her. I don’t see why that wasn’t my right, but Mrs. McIntosh saw it differently. My punishment was that I had to sit in between the sisters for the rest of the year. I used to get sick when I went in. The smell was so bad I would actually get the heaves in class. I’m sure Mrs. McIntosh felt like justice was served, but I would have categorized it as cruel and unusual punishment. Rather ironic that I found them offensively odorous and refused to touch them, and her punishment actually acknowledged that. No trauma there.Sixth grade then was the turning point for me to begin my life as student protester extraordinaire. I’ve been told that I just like to protest things, argue about things, and just generally don’t have respect for authority. After writing about all of these incidents, I’m beginning to see where that came from. I could have stayed traumatized and spent the rest of my life in therapy, or I could create my own therapy by causing problems for authority figures. Mrs. McIntosh left suddenly and to this day I do not know why. After that we got our first male teacher, whose name escapes me. I’m guessing he was in the first wave of men to figure out that going to school for teaching gave them a deferment from the draft, the late 1960s being the height of the slaughter of the Vietnam War. I don’t begrudge anyone the opportunity to have avoided being cannon fodder for an ill-advised war. But there was an entire generation of male teaches who could have cared less about teaching or kids and only saw it as an opportunity to stay out of the Army. He would take us down to the TV room once a week to watch the Mr. Alder’s Science show on WQED, the first public broadcast station in the U.S. We would go in, watch the achingly boring show, and return to our class. We got nothing out of it, and I found it to be worthless. One day I couldn’t take it anymore, so I wrote up a petition to the teacher demanding that we stop watching it. At lunch, I took it around to the entire class and they all signed it. I placed it on the teacher’s desk. When he returned to the classroom, he sat down, picked up the petition, read each word, and looked over the signatures. Then he stood up, slowly eyed the entire class, and demanded to know who signed the petition. My friend John (his name comes up a lot) and I were the only ones to put up our hands. We were punished by remaining in the room while the rest of the class went to watch Mr. Boring’s science show, and we had to write some science paper thing, I don’t remember what. But in my eyes, I won. I didn’t have to watch Mr. Alder’s Science show. Now the trauma has begun to subside!
End of Part III