The School Project

The School Project

In 1962 my parents enrolled me and my siblings in the Eastaboga Elementary School in Talladega County Alabama.  Before this we had gone to the Lincoln Elementary School in Lincoln Alabama.  This had not been a pleasant experience for any of us.  We were not considered "good enough" to be friends with the children in this school.  I started school in 1956, in the small southern town of Lincoln where arrogance and ignorance ran rampant.  My parents were poor, my mother was from Birmingham, Alabama but my father was from Pennsylvania.  A Damn Yankee who drank in public and did not care who knew it.  Between 1956 and 1961 the people in Alabama were still busy fighting the Civil War and why the south should have won, when they were not doing their best to keep African Americans from having equal rights. 

We moved around, always one step ahead of the owner looking for the back rent.  In June of 1961 my mom and dad lost a baby who was born alive and died an hour later.  The loss of this child would change the direction of me and my siblings in ways we could never have imagined, but that story is for a later date.  My mom went into a deep depression and my dad left.  So we were left with not much to work with, but mom did make sure we were always fed.  I don't know how long dad was gone.  Time is a funny thing for a child to remember.

We were really excited to be changing schools.  Our time at Lincoln had been so unhappy, we had made very few friends and none that would remain in our lives.  It would be the same here.  To be fair about the whole thing I believe my siblings and I had been conditioned by this time to stay alone and out of the way.  If we were not noticed then no one would make fun of our old clothes and shoes with holes in them and mismatched socks.  And my hair was frizzy, always a good reason for someone to make fun of me.

I only went to this school for one year, a horrible year.  It was the year of the train wreck at the intersection below our house.  Two people died that day.  It was raining, a cold hard rain.  We were sent home from school because all the power was knocked out when the train went off the tracks.  We had to walk and by the time we got home were frozen to the bone.  This was the year of the Christmas party when an anonymous person gave me new socks.  I was used to not expecting very much.  On Valentines day I got the least of anyone in the class and most of them had mean things written on them.  So at Christmas I just tried to get through the day.  I don't know who drew my name that year or the present I received, but I remember the socks.  I was so totally embarressed.  Of course I was only 11 years old.  At the time it seemed like another slap at my poverty, someone telling me I was not good enough again.  I was far to young and inexperienced to realize that someone in that school had noticed I did not have any socks and had bought me some.  I never found out who it was but if you read this I want to say thank you.

And the school project was completed during this year.  Our teacher, whose name I have long forgotten gave an assignment for a book report.  When we were finished with the book we were to make a cover for the report to make it look pretty.  I was given "A Tale of Two Cities".  I took the book home and my mother was horrified that an eleven year old would be required to read this book.  I should tell you now that my mom was not a stupid woman.  She had two years of college and two years as a US Marine.  And very bad taste in men.  But she assured me that I could read that book.  For the next two weeks I would spend the evenings working my way through that book, while my mom explained the hard parts to me.  By the time I was finished I was sure I understood the book and sat down to write the book report.  I felt I had written a very good report, it was neat and the penmanship was good.  But then it came time to make the cover.

Dad had been sending mom money every few weeks, never enough to feed everyone much less have anything for extras.  At this time she had not heard from him for several weeks and had no money.  Mom, who could be very creative when she had to, searched the house until she found two pennies.  Then she went across the highway and bought two sheets of blue construction paper.  When she got home she helped me line up the holes with the notebook paper.  Then she found some yellow crochet thread and helped me tie it together, making the bows nice and neat.  Then I put the information on the front cover, being very careful because I knew this was the only paper we could get.

I was happy.  I had managed to read that book, do the report and mom and I had created a decent cover for the report.  The next morning I took the report to school and turned it in along with the others. 

Two days later we came in from recess to find the teacher had all the reports laid out on a table.  After we were all seated the teacher started to talk about the reports.  First she picked up one that was in a plastic folder, with red ribbons and gold letters.  She spent a good five minutes talking about how pretty this report was packaged and how the student had done such a wonderful job.  A+.  She did not say anything about the report itself.  As she went through the reports she talked about how the reports were packaged without ever saying anything about the reports and if they were good or not.  And then she picked up mine.  By this time I was pretty sure she was not going to say anything nice about it and I was right.  She told the class how messy it was, how it was completed with cheap construction paper and thread instead of ribbons and glitter.  And then she announced it would be getting an F.  Then to make matters worse she had each child come to the front of the class and pick up their report so everyone who had not already guessed knew this was my report.  By this time my face was burning and a huge ball of fire seemed to have settled in my stomach.  But I did not cry.  I knew I could not cry in front of the class or in front of this teacher.  I was humiliated and hurt so much I could barely breathe.  Luckily this was the last class of the day and soon after the bell rang. 

I went outside to collect my brothers and sisters for the walk home.  On the way out the door I threw the report in the huge garbage can that would be collected by the janitors after school.  And I never said another word to anyone about that report until now.

Mom did not ask about the report, I guess she just assumed that since I got a C+ in reading comprehension I had done OK with the report.  I never brought it up and she died not knowing what happened that day.  I finished that school year and then we moved to Birmingham Alabama where I would learn real life lessons in humiliation and heartbreak.  But throughout my years and there have been a few since then, this incident stands out as one of the defining moments in my life.  It has taken me many years to understand this but there was a lesson taught in that classroom that day.

That day my teacher taught a class of 7th graders that if it looks good on the outside it will not matter what is on the inside.  Also that public humiliation of someone is acceptable as long as you can find justification for your actions.

I don't know what happened to the class of 1962.  I don't remember any names, I have blocked most out of my memory.  I suppose some of them are dead, some probably went on to make good lives for themselves.  Some may even be in prison for all I know, or should be anyway.  The only person I remember from that class is myself.  The image of that day is still burned into my psyche, my stomach still knots when I think about it and tears will still come to my eyes even after all these years and so many things that have happened since.  But when it comes to the surface I try to take care of the little girl who was hurt so badly back then.  Sometimes the adult cannot make the pain go away and I will cry for the little girl I was then.  I have tried to make this memory go away because there are so many that I can not bring to the surface.  Sometimes I worry about the things I have forgotten.  I worry if there is some deep, dark secret hidden in my brain where I cannot be hurt from it anymore.  Maybe there is nothing, or maybe there is. 

I think I started to grow up that day.  I made up my mind to never hurt my mother by telling her what was said.  I never wanted to hurt my mom and when I did it was not intentional.  All children hurt their parents at some time or another, and  most parents expect it.  My mother did, my dad did not. 

In 1997 my mother left us.  When she died she took a vital piece of myself that I have never gotten back.  I disapointed her many times.  But on that long ago day when I did not take the report home I saved her one less hurt in this life that was so cruel to her.  And all these years later I console myself by feeling that I made the right decision when I dropped that report in the garbage can.  I don't know if I did it to console myself or to save her from being hurt but whatever the reason I know I made the right decision.

ajmoss
8/9/2009