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vanillafluffyFourth grade was hell. Mrs. B---it might as well have been Bitch---was an unholy terror, as I've previously alluded. I'll try not to foam at the mouth in the telling, but it isn't easy.
Back in the day, we learned to write cursive beginning in 4th grade. It didn't help that Mrs Bitch was a sadistic cow who seized any infraction as an excuse to drag us out of the classroom and into the hallway to paddle our behinds. Caught chewing gum or passing a note? Paddle time! Didn't finish your multiplication drills? Paddle time! She also deducted points from an otherwise perfect spelling paper if your handwriting didn't measure up to her standards. To make sure we had plenty of practice, she would also assign us sentences to write, ala Bart Simpson.
And when I say 'paddle', I mean whale on big time, and I regularly got it a couple times a week. Usually I didn't make it to lunch without getting beaten to the point of sobs---I wasn't the only one who was the target for her anger-management issues---I don't think a day went by without someone getting whacked. She also confiscated a fancy metal ruler I'd borrowed from my dad, which I found out later she GAVE AWAY TO ANOTHER STUDENT. Theiving whore.
I hated her then and I hate her now, even though she died when I was in 6th grade. I hope she's roasting in her own toasty little Lutheran Hell. What kind of way is that to treat a 9-year old whose worst sin is being slow at math? Seriously! I wasn't talking back, calling names, spitting in her face---all of which she diserved, IMO---and she whupped me more than my parents did in my life. Hell, these days, a parent who did that to a kid would be jailed. As much as I'd LIKE to exemplify a charitable and forgiving attitude, I'd rather see her flogged bloody.
I know, forty years after the fact it's ridiculous to be so indignant about these events, traumatic though they were. Looking back, though, it all contributed to my low self-esteem. Between the "seen and not heard" ethos I absorbed at home, combined with the sense that grown-ups stuck together, I was convinced that if I told my folks what was going on in school, I'd get into more trouble at home. It was bad enough that my grades sucked and all my report cards said I wasn't making an effort.
Sure, I was making an effort---to stay invisible. Reality was intolerable, so I crawled into book after book and ever deeper into my own imagination.
At home, my mom had gone to work for directory assistance, back in the days when it was ladies with phone books on their laps, so I usually came home and watched sitcoms for the next couple hours. They honed my comic timing; I know where to pause for the laugh-track, thanks.
My parents oldest goddaughter got married that fall, which I remember because it was the first wedding I'd ever attended, and finding me shoes for the event was a harbinger of things to come. My dad and brother both had large feet, Dad being 13 EEE. Mom was a size 7.5, and at this point, my feet were bigger than hers: 8 Wide. After hitting every shoe store on Staten Island, I ended up with some Hush Puppies that were a coppery-brown cross between a loafer and a pump.
Two things happened on March 7th, 1970. There was an eclipse, which I missed, because I spent the morning lying down with an earache. It was also the day Peter and Sirocco were married. (I'll spare you details of finding a sister-of-the-groom dress. It wasn't pretty.) Mom very ssensibly bought me a couple new Bobbsey books to keep me busy beforehand and during the reception.
Sirocco wore a silvery brocade sheath-dress that she'd stitched herself, finishing at the last minute. The ceremony was held at St Jerk's Church, which was affiliated with but not adjacent to the school, and the reception was at Angelina's, an Italian restaurant that we'd been to on several occasions. It was nice, and I was especially happy that we got a LOT of leftover wedding cake.
Romance was in the air. I was something of an early bloomer, because I was about to fall hard for the first time.
.
Back in the day, we learned to write cursive beginning in 4th grade. It didn't help that Mrs Bitch was a sadistic cow who seized any infraction as an excuse to drag us out of the classroom and into the hallway to paddle our behinds. Caught chewing gum or passing a note? Paddle time! Didn't finish your multiplication drills? Paddle time! She also deducted points from an otherwise perfect spelling paper if your handwriting didn't measure up to her standards. To make sure we had plenty of practice, she would also assign us sentences to write, ala Bart Simpson.
And when I say 'paddle', I mean whale on big time, and I regularly got it a couple times a week. Usually I didn't make it to lunch without getting beaten to the point of sobs---I wasn't the only one who was the target for her anger-management issues---I don't think a day went by without someone getting whacked. She also confiscated a fancy metal ruler I'd borrowed from my dad, which I found out later she GAVE AWAY TO ANOTHER STUDENT. Theiving whore.
I hated her then and I hate her now, even though she died when I was in 6th grade. I hope she's roasting in her own toasty little Lutheran Hell. What kind of way is that to treat a 9-year old whose worst sin is being slow at math? Seriously! I wasn't talking back, calling names, spitting in her face---all of which she diserved, IMO---and she whupped me more than my parents did in my life. Hell, these days, a parent who did that to a kid would be jailed. As much as I'd LIKE to exemplify a charitable and forgiving attitude, I'd rather see her flogged bloody.
I know, forty years after the fact it's ridiculous to be so indignant about these events, traumatic though they were. Looking back, though, it all contributed to my low self-esteem. Between the "seen and not heard" ethos I absorbed at home, combined with the sense that grown-ups stuck together, I was convinced that if I told my folks what was going on in school, I'd get into more trouble at home. It was bad enough that my grades sucked and all my report cards said I wasn't making an effort.
Sure, I was making an effort---to stay invisible. Reality was intolerable, so I crawled into book after book and ever deeper into my own imagination.
At home, my mom had gone to work for directory assistance, back in the days when it was ladies with phone books on their laps, so I usually came home and watched sitcoms for the next couple hours. They honed my comic timing; I know where to pause for the laugh-track, thanks.
My parents oldest goddaughter got married that fall, which I remember because it was the first wedding I'd ever attended, and finding me shoes for the event was a harbinger of things to come. My dad and brother both had large feet, Dad being 13 EEE. Mom was a size 7.5, and at this point, my feet were bigger than hers: 8 Wide. After hitting every shoe store on Staten Island, I ended up with some Hush Puppies that were a coppery-brown cross between a loafer and a pump.
Two things happened on March 7th, 1970. There was an eclipse, which I missed, because I spent the morning lying down with an earache. It was also the day Peter and Sirocco were married. (I'll spare you details of finding a sister-of-the-groom dress. It wasn't pretty.) Mom very ssensibly bought me a couple new Bobbsey books to keep me busy beforehand and during the reception.
Sirocco wore a silvery brocade sheath-dress that she'd stitched herself, finishing at the last minute. The ceremony was held at St Jerk's Church, which was affiliated with but not adjacent to the school, and the reception was at Angelina's, an Italian restaurant that we'd been to on several occasions. It was nice, and I was especially happy that we got a LOT of leftover wedding cake.
Romance was in the air. I was something of an early bloomer, because I was about to fall hard for the first time.
.
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(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-29 01:07 pm (UTC)Sirocco! I once had a backpack by that name.
Oh, the shoes!!! I had tiny wide feet. Still do. Like a 5EEE. My Dad would always say to the salesman (remember when they had shoe salesmen?) "Forget the shoes, just give her the boxes."
These are a joy to read!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-29 02:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-29 03:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-29 04:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-29 06:50 pm (UTC)The guys that pumped gas and checked your oil were my uncle and cousins. I'm not sure his station ever went to self serve, actually.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-29 07:27 pm (UTC)(Of course, in those days, gas was $1.75 per....)