The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad, Second-Rate, Second Grade Teacher
To be entirely honest, there's no one bright spot or dark spot to my childhood. I imagine, like most children, I had my share of emotional and social troubles. Despite that, like how one part of the cosmic background radiation is cooler than all the rest, there is one part of my childhood worse than any other part. Students will humiliate and pick on one another; this is a fact of life. Teachers, however, should never take on the same role as antagonist.
Mrs. Barnett was not a nice woman to begin with. She was as big as a truck, mean as a rattlesnake, and her skin had the texture of Frito Corn Chips. Although I did not like her, I did respect her. She didn't demand authority as most teachers did. She sucked up authority osmoticly like a porous paper towel. Whether or not she was an effective teacher, I cannot recall. I did do fairly poorly my first nine weeks of school that year, although my parents decided the root cause was, ultimately, pressure. I would, however, hazard a tentative “no”, in lieu of convenient access to a time machine. I reason that she was not based on the egregious amounts of busywork we were given.
Before I continue any further, it is important to introduce a secondary character to my worst school experience in my childhood. Her name was Ashley Mitchell. Ashley Mitchell is what most kids call a “tattletale”. Tattletales are children who desire attention to such a great degree, they will gladly sacrifice popularity for it. No one liked Ashley Mitchell. We once read a book called Mitchell is Moving, and the entire class broke out in a chorus of cheers and applause. Honestly, I cannot blame Ashley Mitchell for her role in this story. She was, after all, a child.
One day, six weeks before the end of school, Ashley Mitchell shouted, “Meeeyus Barnett! Alan didn't do his work!”
Mrs. Barnett stamped over like an elephant or a rhinoceros. She bent down and started pulling sheets of busywork out of my desk. Unfinished crossword puzzles and word finds flew through the air and into a pile two inches thick. I protested the entire time, “Mrs. Barnett, those are just busy work. You told us we didn't have to finish them!” Mrs. Barnett refused to listen to reason. When she was finished, she straitened up the pile and stapled them, with some degree of difficulty.
“Alan! Why didn't you do this work? If you don't finish this before the end of the year, you'll have to repeat the second grade! No more recess until you get this done!” She yelled at me.
Now, when something like this happens, I usually took it up with mom or dad. I could not, however, as mom and dad were on vacation. I no longer remember what happened to the end of school. Somehow, I made it through the day despite being depressed physically and mentally. As soon as I arrived at Mamaw and Papaw's house, I immediately began to do the word finds, as they were much more difficult for me. I must have worked on it for four strait hours. I would have worked on it until my bedtime at 9 o'clock, if Papaw hadn't had us go with him to pick up Mamaw from the hospital, who had been released following a severe hip injury. As I awaited Mamaw's car, my spirit sank. Every passing minute seemed to be an eternity.
When she finally arrived, I explained my predicament. Mamaw freaked out and gave mom and dad a call in their hotel. I worked nonstop until 8 PM, having finished a grand total of two word finds. My Mamaw insisted that I stop working and enjoy the last hour of my day. She assured me everything would be alright. I woke up the next morning, in my own bed in my own house. I found mom and told her about the previous day. She said she'd already heard, and that I shouldn't worry. On the kitchen table, a poorly arranged pile of busy work had magically completed itself in the night.
In reflection, this was both a terrible and great school experience because, despite my emotional trauma, my family really came through for me when no one else could.
Mrs. Barnett was not a nice woman to begin with. She was as big as a truck, mean as a rattlesnake, and her skin had the texture of Frito Corn Chips. Although I did not like her, I did respect her. She didn't demand authority as most teachers did. She sucked up authority osmoticly like a porous paper towel. Whether or not she was an effective teacher, I cannot recall. I did do fairly poorly my first nine weeks of school that year, although my parents decided the root cause was, ultimately, pressure. I would, however, hazard a tentative “no”, in lieu of convenient access to a time machine. I reason that she was not based on the egregious amounts of busywork we were given.
Before I continue any further, it is important to introduce a secondary character to my worst school experience in my childhood. Her name was Ashley Mitchell. Ashley Mitchell is what most kids call a “tattletale”. Tattletales are children who desire attention to such a great degree, they will gladly sacrifice popularity for it. No one liked Ashley Mitchell. We once read a book called Mitchell is Moving, and the entire class broke out in a chorus of cheers and applause. Honestly, I cannot blame Ashley Mitchell for her role in this story. She was, after all, a child.
One day, six weeks before the end of school, Ashley Mitchell shouted, “Meeeyus Barnett! Alan didn't do his work!”
Mrs. Barnett stamped over like an elephant or a rhinoceros. She bent down and started pulling sheets of busywork out of my desk. Unfinished crossword puzzles and word finds flew through the air and into a pile two inches thick. I protested the entire time, “Mrs. Barnett, those are just busy work. You told us we didn't have to finish them!” Mrs. Barnett refused to listen to reason. When she was finished, she straitened up the pile and stapled them, with some degree of difficulty.
“Alan! Why didn't you do this work? If you don't finish this before the end of the year, you'll have to repeat the second grade! No more recess until you get this done!” She yelled at me.
Now, when something like this happens, I usually took it up with mom or dad. I could not, however, as mom and dad were on vacation. I no longer remember what happened to the end of school. Somehow, I made it through the day despite being depressed physically and mentally. As soon as I arrived at Mamaw and Papaw's house, I immediately began to do the word finds, as they were much more difficult for me. I must have worked on it for four strait hours. I would have worked on it until my bedtime at 9 o'clock, if Papaw hadn't had us go with him to pick up Mamaw from the hospital, who had been released following a severe hip injury. As I awaited Mamaw's car, my spirit sank. Every passing minute seemed to be an eternity.
When she finally arrived, I explained my predicament. Mamaw freaked out and gave mom and dad a call in their hotel. I worked nonstop until 8 PM, having finished a grand total of two word finds. My Mamaw insisted that I stop working and enjoy the last hour of my day. She assured me everything would be alright. I woke up the next morning, in my own bed in my own house. I found mom and told her about the previous day. She said she'd already heard, and that I shouldn't worry. On the kitchen table, a poorly arranged pile of busy work had magically completed itself in the night.
In reflection, this was both a terrible and great school experience because, despite my emotional trauma, my family really came through for me when no one else could.