Memories of Elementary School

Memories of my Early Education by Kendra Lachniet

I wanted to write an essay about my memories of my elementary education. Then I realized that I remember almost nothing about that time in my life. I hauled out my little School Book with all the class pictures and mementos tucked in the pockets. The pages had all come loose from the bindings and were held together with a big rubber band. You’d think these pages would be stuffed full of memories. Nope. I don’t know if my parents got neglectful with their second child, or if I, embarrassed by my early attempts to demonstrate my skills, had tossed the contents over the years. Most pockets contained little more than report cards, which offered little insight into my unmemorable childhood.
I attended Gladiola public preschool, and according to my Mom’s notes, I loved it! Wish I could remember. My report card indicated that I worked slowly and couldn’t follow directions. (I recently had something similar written on my externship evaluation as a medical assistant, so I guess some things just never change.)
I do remember some things about kindergarten. I attended Southwest Wyoming Christian School, and my teacher was Mrs. DeYoung. I liked school and my teacher. My best friend was Frances. I was very shy, but I knew her already because she went to my church, and I knew she was a nice girl. Mostly I did well at all the complex tasks like drawing and snacking and napping. Unlike today’s kindergartners, we weren’t yet required to solve algebraic equations or perform brain surgery. Good thing, because I had yet to master the tasks of “traveling alone in the neighborhood (2 blocks)” and “crossing a street safely.” I don’t know how we were tested on these skills. I don’t remember anyone shoving me out towards 28th Street to see if I would cross at the intersection and wander beyond Russ’. The line that reads “I know my name, address, and telephone number” on the report card has “name” circled, but address and phone number crossed off. I’m thinking this was probably a big advancement for me. My mom loves to tell the story of how she dropped me off at another child’s house around the block from our house to play. I guess I got bored and wandered off without supervising mom’s notice. The police picked me up, lost and crying. When the officer asked my name, I told him “Kendra Sue.” He couldn’t find “Sue” in the phone book, so he asked for my other last name. Well, my dad always called me “Little Miss Muffet,” so clearly my name was Kendra Sue Muffet. Well, he couldn’t find that in the phone book either. Luckily, I could recognize our unique aqua-trimmed brick house on Hazelwood, and I pointed it out to him on the way to the station. So I made it home, and my parents must’ve made sure I at least knew my name. And they probably didn’t teach me to cross the street so I’d never get far enough to get lost again.
I also notice that “A child who adjusts to opposition or defeat without crying or sulking” has a big minus next to it, and “crying” is underlined. In my defense, I’d like to say that it’s easy to become frustrated when you’re “holding it” all the time. Let me explain. I already had a bit of a phobia of bathrooms outside my home because of an unfortunate incident at the cottage my parents rented in the summer. I didn’t adjust well when I was defeated by a stuck lock, and I think I do remember crying as a repairman somehow made an entrance through the shower ceiling to get me out. Then I get to kindergarten, and unlike my home toilet that gently swooshes the unmentionables down the drain, this gate to hell positively erupts a violent gush of water, threatening to suck me down into its turd-filled depths. I remember tearing out of the bathroom, barely suppressing a scream. (The only thing that terrified me more than the toilet was the embarrassment of admitting my fear.) So it may have been the constipation making me cranky.
By the end of kindergarten, I had another best friend, Debbie. I wasn’t ignorant of the exclusiveness of the term “best.” I just started to categorize my best friends: Tammy was my neighborhood best friend; Frances was my church best friend; and Debbie was my school best friend!
First grade started out well for me. I had Mrs. Antzak, whom I loved. She was very sweet and never yelled at me or embarrassed me. We learned to read with Dick and Jane, their little sister, Sally, their parents, their pets, and a teddy bear named Tim. They engaged in insipid conversations that mimicked a stuck vinyl record, but we felt like successful readers. Aside from still not being able to follow directions, and struggling with math, I enjoyed school...until April. You see, Mrs. Antzak got too fat to teach. She told us she was going to have a baby, and we would continue through June with Mrs. Arnoys. Mrs. Arnoys didn’t read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe the right way, like Mrs. Antzak. The voices of the characters sounded different. I remember being quite upset by this change. Then Mrs. Arnoys did the unforgivable: she embarrassed me by reprimanding me for hopping over a chair instead of going all the way around the row of desks. Besides the toilet episode, this was one of my only memories of my early education. I probably cried. And I held a grudge.
Second and third grade are a blur. I had Mrs. Slager, then Miss Mead. I was an unexceptional student, and did most poorly in Bible stories. I think it was during this time that we started using SRA so we could advance in reading at our own pace. By the time I started teaching, they labeled this “tracking” and eliminated it from the curriculum in favor of “whole language.” However, I bought several boxes of SRA and used them with my English language learners, who never knew they were being “tracked.” (As long as it wasn’t la migra tracking them, they were okay with it.)
In one of these grades we did bird reports, and I credit that activity with my ability to identify birds still. (I had the Baltimore Oriole, and my BFF Debbie had the goldfinch. I remember the boys fighting over the kingfisher, the only macho-looking bird on the list.) I vaguely remember playground activities, mostly centering on the monkey bars or slide. Greg and Steve used to chase me and Debbie, then knock us to the ground and stuff grass in our mouths. We didn’t really mind. It was part of the game, and we knew they did it because they liked us.
In fourth grade, I went from being an “average student” to an “excellent student.” I’d like to say it was because Miss Luchies was an excellent teacher, which she probably was, but I think it also might’ve been because she scared me. She had the PINK NIGHTIE. It was a hideously frilly, too transparent nightgown that hung in a prominent spot in the classroom. She said that if anyone got wet during recess, she’d make that person take off his or her clothing and wear that nightie in class for the remainder of the day. She wasn’t going to let someone drip all over her floor. Brian Ilbrink reminded me that she also had a paddle, but I wasn’t really afraid of that. My parents had “the board of education” too. I also had a big brother and played mostly with boys in the neighborhood, so getting smacked around was part of playing. As I believe I mentioned, being embarrassed terrified me. And one day I did come inside from recess soaked. Someone had pushed me into a puddle, and while I didn’t hold it against him, I didn’t feel it was right for me to be punished in addition to falling victim to a shove. Somehow, I escaped the pink nightie. Miss Luchies probably took pity on me. I probably cried.
In fourth grade I read such great stories as The Velvet Room, Stuart Little, The Incredible Journey (which made me cry), and Mr. Pudgins. The one story Miss Luchies made me read that I didn’t like was Philip Hall Likes Me, I Reckon Maybe. Already the future English teacher in me was cringing at the poor grammar. Plus, nobody in my school talked like that.
My fifth grade teacher was Miss Leisman. I had always done poorly in Bible classes, but in fifth grade, my Bible grade went up and my science grade was the one suffering. I wonder if there’s any correlation? I decided at this point I wanted to be an actress instead of a nurse, my lifelong ambition. I became fascinated with Hollywood and show business about the time my hormones started kicking in and the year The Hardy Boys television series started. I fell in love. While most of my friends preferred Shaun Cassidy, I had the hots for 26-year-old Parker Stevenson. It wasn’t nearly as disturbing to me at the time as it seems now.
In sixth grade Mrs. Schneider taught me some very important lessons that would serve me when I became a teacher myself. First, she had taught my brother, and she assumed I would be just like him. So, from day one, she treated me like I was going to be a problem. I became a problem. And because I was a problem, my BFF Debbie also became a problem. We also had a new friend named Renee, whom Mrs. Schneider sometimes punished to a lesser degree for her association with us. Former goody-two-shoes, we started doing horrible things, like pulling boys into the girls’ bathroom! When Mrs. Schneider lectured the class about it, she said, “I won’t mention any names, Debbie and Kendra, but .....blah, blah, blah....and there are things in the girls’ restroom that boys should not be seeing...” Really? I wanted SO badly to inform her that those tampon and pad machines had not yet been installed, but my shyness kept my mouth shut. We didn’t talk about those things except in hushed tones, never mentioning the “period,” but referring to our monthly visitor as “George,” the unwanted guest who made us cranky and sometimes caused us to miss school or at least not participate in gym. The girls in class had just had the embarrassing lecture about “becoming a woman,” and had forced to watch a video about female reproductive parts while passing around a pad like a hot potato, all the while wishing we were playing basketball with the boys in the gym. (For some of us, the lecture had come a bit too late anyway. I know--TMI.)
Next, Mrs. Schneider criticized my penmanship. I had decided that I liked the way my mom made her cursive letter r, an old-fashioned style. So I imitated it in my own writing. Mrs. S didn’t like that at all. She made me stay in for recess and stay after school to practice writing lots of little cursive r’s. I wrote them my way, then added a little line to make them look more like hers, clearly intending to continue doing it exactly as before. I got my first D. I also got marked down in participation, listening, and showing effort.
Mrs. Schneider got a certain amount of revenge during Medieval Day. She assigned each person a role to play. We had to do a report and dress the part of a person living in the middle ages. When she said she’d be passing a hat with roles on pieces of paper, I stupidly asked what would happen if a girl picked a boy’s role, or vice versa. A second too late, I realized what an idiotic move I’d made. She assured me that she would choose the roles for us, and that wouldn’t happen. Instead of passing the hat, she just picked the roles from the hat. (I have certain suspicions about that.) So, after announcing all the lords and ladies, kings and queens, knights, serfs, ... she announced that Debbie and Kendra would be monks. And Renee would be Robin Hood. I didn’t cry. I had become the bad-ass she had anticipated in the beginning. Besides, the robe my mom made served me for many Halloweens to follow.
Finally, Mrs. Schneider, pulled Debbie and I aside to discuss our “negative attitudes.” We didn’t really understand what she meant. She told us she would put a hand on our shoulders the next time she saw us displaying negativity. Fine. As we were reading a story aloud in class one day, Debbie and I started to giggle and roll our eyes at each other because one of the characters was named Frank, my favorite Hardy boy! Ooooh, ahhh! Dreamy! Ouch! Mrs. Schneider sank her talons into my shoulder! This is what she meant? She later asked us if we understood what she meant about being negative. Yes! We understood. Negative attitude = boy crazy!
So, I should thank Mrs. Schneider for teaching me the most about teaching. I learned never to judge a student by their siblings, to say what you mean and don’t assume kids understand just because they say they do, and if you treat a kid like a bad kid, you’ll probably get a bad kid. But I also have to forgive her because now I know how hard her job was. I taught sixth-graders for several years, and they are truly the most challenging age group I’ve ever had to teach, and that’s the nicest way I can put it. And I have to give her credit for sticking it out like she did. I obviously didn’t.
To sum up: I learned many important things in elementary school:
1. My name, address, & phone number, eventually. (Thankfully, my family didn’t move until I went to college.)
2. Crying, while not attractive, is an effective tool for avoiding punishment.
3. The Baltimore oriole has a unique nest that hangs like a sack from the branch of a tree.
4. Dick and Jane and SRA are excellent resources for teaching reading.
5. If you want students to remember you, engage their emotions (like fear, anger, shame).
6. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is the best book ever written.
7. If your teen daughter “falls in love with” a 26-year-old movie star, don’t sweat it. When she’s 45, she’ll still be in love with the 26-year-old version, which is a different kind of creepy.
8. Monks in medieval times spent a lot of time copying manuscripts--and they probably didn’t have someone standing over their shoulders critiquing their cursive r’s.
9. The term “George” has been replaced with “Aunt Flo,” but the monthly visitor is just as unwelcome today as s/he was then, and sixth grade is way too late to introduce her.
10. While there wasn’t anything in the girls’ bathroom boys shouldn’t see, there ARE things in the boys’ bathroom girls shouldn’t see! (Did you know they didn’t have doors on the stalls?!)