Personal Post: Gone Teacher Gone
I had this teacher in elementary school that I hated. Absolutely hated. She remains synonymous, in my mind, with all the things that really are wrong with the public education system.
Her name was Mrs. Summers, and I hated her.
But to explain why, I should back up. The year I entered fifth grade was 1995. The previous summer, DJ was hit by a waverunner while vacationing to the lake with his then-girlfriend. The experience destroyed what remained of our family. I remember spending a lot of time at the hospital, seeing DJ hooked up to noisy machines with his leg suspended. That's the most vivid memory from that time of my life.
I think it goes without saying that experience broke my mom. This is when I recall she stopped getting out of bed before we left for school (which actually made me happy, because I started wearing my hair down instead of in a ponytail every day as she had previously insisted) and would usually still be in a nightgown when we got home. And at night, she was so unpredictable with her rage, it was best to stay isolated away from her if you could. I often fell asleep to the sounds of my parents screaming at each other downstairs.
So I was excited at finding some respite in school. None of my then-best friends were in my class, but I had some good friends that would be in there with me. Anything would be better than being at home, I thought.
But I was wrong. Almost from jump, Mrs. Summers and I didn't get along. To this day, I can't remember when the conflict started, or what it was over. But in a relatively short period of time, I had caught her attention the wrong way more than once.
I was 10 when I started the fifth grade. I remember myself as a very shy, timid, and emotional girl. I believed I was stupid, and I think most other people thought I was as well. I was also one of the tallest people in my grade and chubby, a feeling that wasn't helped when my mom insisted on sending me to school in sweats for weeks at a time. I had started my period, an experience that left me feeling even more fat, emotional, and depressed.
This was before I had begun to argue and fight back at home, and I harbored the belief that teachers could hit you if they wanted to. So believe me when I say whatever caused me to be in Mrs. Summers' target, it was totally unprovoked.
It may have been that she thought I was lazy, as so many people did. It would be another seven years before people would catch on that I had a learning disability that prevented me from reading numbers correctly, something I couldn't articulate back then. She was a self-described "mathlete" and loved math, so that didn't help. I do remember after faring poorly in the class's spelling bee, she remarked that since I couldn't do math to save my life, she would have expected better from me in this arena.
In actuality, I think she had a keen sense to know that my meekness stemmed from the chaos at home. Looking back on it, the fact that I was so distracted in school, frequently had long periods of absence from class, and a generally traumatized demeanor should have tipped her--or, Jesus, somebody--off to the fact that things were not copacetic at home. But she preyed upon it, I think, because she knew I would have no way of fighting back.
I do remember fifth grade being the year I first experienced thoughts of killing myself. I used to say that those days were like walking through Jell-O, a sensation I felt the most as we would walk from our classroom to the lunchroom or anywhere else that required movement. I felt totally out of my body, almost like I was observing things as they were happening. I had such intense menstrual cramps I would lay down and cry because I wasn't allowed to take anything but had to just suffer through them, something that a lot of people said was just for attention (though, it would later be guessed correctly by an ex-friend that it was due to edno).
I wanted to do my assignments, but spent a lot of time that year sleeping at home, and usually I woke up, too tired to do what needed to be done, if I woke up before the next day at all. I enjoyed learning, but I felt bullied by my peers, by my family of origin, and even by my teacher, I spent a lot of time wishing I could turn invisible, or at least fix what so wrong with me, everybody hated me.
At the time, I couldn't know that it really wasn't anything I did. I mean, what kind of adult picks on a 10-year-old? I remember one day, doing something at my desk (knowing me, probably a homework assignment I'd forgotten to complete) and she caught me in the act. Though the specifics escape me, I do remember her yelling, in front of everyone, that she hated dealing with me because I was always hiding from her. Everything about her, from her withered hands to her grating voice to the fact I believed she was allowed to smack me across the face like what happened at home, scared the shit out of me--of course I was always hiding from her!
She didn't bully me every day, as there were two or three other students who rankled her ire as much or more than I did. But they were all boys, and didn't seem to absorb what she said to the extent that I did. But it wasn't uncommon to be trying to pal around with someone on the playground, and hear one of her phrases come up as an insult, like the time I had been absent for two weeks due to a major illness as well as one of our trips to Texas, yet completed an assignment to create a game board to accompany a book we were reading. I'd made it on two pieces of construction paper taped together, instead of her preferred poster board, leading her to ask me if I ever took anything seriously. I remember that insult on the playground for a few days.
It also wasn't uncommon for her to have my more agreeable peers go through my desk to find missing homework assignments when I couldn't produce them. I'm a neat freak now, but back then, I was your average, messy 10-year-old, and it wasn't unusual to lose a paper or project in there from time to time. And it was something that meanest kid I've ever known never let me forget, either, since she was usually the one who went through my desk.
Once in a while, Mrs. Summers would do something nice. My interest in writing had recently started to blossom, and during a project on aquatic species, I wrote a paper from the seal's perspective. It was engaging and funny, and she praised it to another teacher who was helping us improve our writing skills. Another time, she gave me a Pocahontas biography I expressed interest in, with the caveat that I complete all of my homework for the week. I assume those good days, as few and far between as they were, contributed to how I was able to make it through enough to pass. Maybe she moved me forward because she just didn't want to deal with me another year.
It took me a long time to realize what kind of woman she was, and see how many characteristics she shared with my mother. Recently, when I did a Google search for her and found her obituary, there wasn't a single cell of sadness in my being. It said that she was a beloved educator, but to me, she'll always be the woman with the apricot mouth always pulled back into a sneer, who used me and at least a few other students to vent out whatever was frustrating her that day. She was old by the time that I went to school, but based on the obituary, she was over 70 when she finally retired.
I wonder how many other students she did damage to before then.
Her name was Mrs. Summers, and I hated her.
But to explain why, I should back up. The year I entered fifth grade was 1995. The previous summer, DJ was hit by a waverunner while vacationing to the lake with his then-girlfriend. The experience destroyed what remained of our family. I remember spending a lot of time at the hospital, seeing DJ hooked up to noisy machines with his leg suspended. That's the most vivid memory from that time of my life.
I think it goes without saying that experience broke my mom. This is when I recall she stopped getting out of bed before we left for school (which actually made me happy, because I started wearing my hair down instead of in a ponytail every day as she had previously insisted) and would usually still be in a nightgown when we got home. And at night, she was so unpredictable with her rage, it was best to stay isolated away from her if you could. I often fell asleep to the sounds of my parents screaming at each other downstairs.
So I was excited at finding some respite in school. None of my then-best friends were in my class, but I had some good friends that would be in there with me. Anything would be better than being at home, I thought.
But I was wrong. Almost from jump, Mrs. Summers and I didn't get along. To this day, I can't remember when the conflict started, or what it was over. But in a relatively short period of time, I had caught her attention the wrong way more than once.
I was 10 when I started the fifth grade. I remember myself as a very shy, timid, and emotional girl. I believed I was stupid, and I think most other people thought I was as well. I was also one of the tallest people in my grade and chubby, a feeling that wasn't helped when my mom insisted on sending me to school in sweats for weeks at a time. I had started my period, an experience that left me feeling even more fat, emotional, and depressed.
This was before I had begun to argue and fight back at home, and I harbored the belief that teachers could hit you if they wanted to. So believe me when I say whatever caused me to be in Mrs. Summers' target, it was totally unprovoked.
It may have been that she thought I was lazy, as so many people did. It would be another seven years before people would catch on that I had a learning disability that prevented me from reading numbers correctly, something I couldn't articulate back then. She was a self-described "mathlete" and loved math, so that didn't help. I do remember after faring poorly in the class's spelling bee, she remarked that since I couldn't do math to save my life, she would have expected better from me in this arena.
In actuality, I think she had a keen sense to know that my meekness stemmed from the chaos at home. Looking back on it, the fact that I was so distracted in school, frequently had long periods of absence from class, and a generally traumatized demeanor should have tipped her--or, Jesus, somebody--off to the fact that things were not copacetic at home. But she preyed upon it, I think, because she knew I would have no way of fighting back.
I do remember fifth grade being the year I first experienced thoughts of killing myself. I used to say that those days were like walking through Jell-O, a sensation I felt the most as we would walk from our classroom to the lunchroom or anywhere else that required movement. I felt totally out of my body, almost like I was observing things as they were happening. I had such intense menstrual cramps I would lay down and cry because I wasn't allowed to take anything but had to just suffer through them, something that a lot of people said was just for attention (though, it would later be guessed correctly by an ex-friend that it was due to edno).
I wanted to do my assignments, but spent a lot of time that year sleeping at home, and usually I woke up, too tired to do what needed to be done, if I woke up before the next day at all. I enjoyed learning, but I felt bullied by my peers, by my family of origin, and even by my teacher, I spent a lot of time wishing I could turn invisible, or at least fix what so wrong with me, everybody hated me.
At the time, I couldn't know that it really wasn't anything I did. I mean, what kind of adult picks on a 10-year-old? I remember one day, doing something at my desk (knowing me, probably a homework assignment I'd forgotten to complete) and she caught me in the act. Though the specifics escape me, I do remember her yelling, in front of everyone, that she hated dealing with me because I was always hiding from her. Everything about her, from her withered hands to her grating voice to the fact I believed she was allowed to smack me across the face like what happened at home, scared the shit out of me--of course I was always hiding from her!
She didn't bully me every day, as there were two or three other students who rankled her ire as much or more than I did. But they were all boys, and didn't seem to absorb what she said to the extent that I did. But it wasn't uncommon to be trying to pal around with someone on the playground, and hear one of her phrases come up as an insult, like the time I had been absent for two weeks due to a major illness as well as one of our trips to Texas, yet completed an assignment to create a game board to accompany a book we were reading. I'd made it on two pieces of construction paper taped together, instead of her preferred poster board, leading her to ask me if I ever took anything seriously. I remember that insult on the playground for a few days.
It also wasn't uncommon for her to have my more agreeable peers go through my desk to find missing homework assignments when I couldn't produce them. I'm a neat freak now, but back then, I was your average, messy 10-year-old, and it wasn't unusual to lose a paper or project in there from time to time. And it was something that meanest kid I've ever known never let me forget, either, since she was usually the one who went through my desk.
Once in a while, Mrs. Summers would do something nice. My interest in writing had recently started to blossom, and during a project on aquatic species, I wrote a paper from the seal's perspective. It was engaging and funny, and she praised it to another teacher who was helping us improve our writing skills. Another time, she gave me a Pocahontas biography I expressed interest in, with the caveat that I complete all of my homework for the week. I assume those good days, as few and far between as they were, contributed to how I was able to make it through enough to pass. Maybe she moved me forward because she just didn't want to deal with me another year.
It took me a long time to realize what kind of woman she was, and see how many characteristics she shared with my mother. Recently, when I did a Google search for her and found her obituary, there wasn't a single cell of sadness in my being. It said that she was a beloved educator, but to me, she'll always be the woman with the apricot mouth always pulled back into a sneer, who used me and at least a few other students to vent out whatever was frustrating her that day. She was old by the time that I went to school, but based on the obituary, she was over 70 when she finally retired.
I wonder how many other students she did damage to before then.