This story I don’t have to tell again
Which story have you told many times? Is the truth near or must you continue to tell it?
In the fall of 1976 when I was in the first grade I was put in the “dumb” reading group. This is what the teacher, Mrs. Manion called us. I was in that group of 6 year olds who had not yet grasped the way letters magically all fit together to tell a story. During reading time she called us out. “Time for the dumb readers to go to the library”. The small group of us marched out of the classroom with the librarian, shame burning my face. She was teaching me to hate her. A month later I fell off the monkey bars during recess and broke my arm. I I was in pain, scared, and needed my mom. Mrs. Manion told me if I stopped crying I wouldn’t have to do any of my workbook while I waited for my mom to come. She was just mean. If a kid talked to much or made a mistake the punishment was for the child to stand with her nose against the chalk board inside a circle she drew. Mrs. Manion taped a boy to his chair because he couldn’t sit still. He lived on my street and I was embarrassed for him.
In January of 1977 there was a huge snow storm in central Ohio. Frigid temperatures moved in followed by lots of snow then more snow. The extreme cold triggered a shortage of natural gas. The governor of Ohio called for a state of emergency due to the energy crisis. Many industries had to close and lots of people were out of work. Schools were closed for at least a month. I did not understand what an energy crisis was, all I knew was that I got to stay home from school and was very relieved. Each Monday morning students w” go to school for an hour and get homework and assignments for the week.
Each day me and my mom, along with my 2 and 3 year old brother’s would go into an upstairs bedroom that was the warmest. We had toys, crafts, books, and snacks. It was during this month away from school and that mean teacher that I learned to read. I don’t remember what it felt like to suddenly realize how it worked. How A P P L E spelled apple. And M O M spelled mom. And C A T spelled cat, like the one curled up on my lap. 30 years later I watched as my own daughter was learning to read. It was like watching a puzzle fit together. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Frustration taking over until the day a huge grin appeared on her little face and she read “ This is Biscuit. Biscuit is small. Biscuit is yellow “ .
My time at home that winter gave me the confidence to discover the words and the safety to make mistakes and try again. Soon I was reading “Hop on Pop” and “Whose Mouse Are You?”
I went back to school with all the other kids when the weather cleared up and the temperatures move into the 30’s. I don’t remember if Mrs. Manion noticed that I had learned to read and I wasn’t about to tell her.
What stayed with me for years and years was the idea that I was a dumb student. I had very little confidence in my ability to learn and remember. I never considered myself a good student. Even in college when I made the honor roll my first semester. Even when I successfully graduated with a BA. Even when I graduated from my first masters program I still had doubts about myself as a capable, intelligent student.
When I was 44 I went back to school for a second masters degree. I completed with a 4.0. It was only then when I heard the voice of Mrs. Manion calling the dumb readers did I stand up and in my 46 year old mind and body that also carried that 6 year old I said “screw you”. I have way more education that you ever had. And I read 85 books last year!
And that is the story of how I learned to read and to let the ghosts of that first grade year from so long ago fly away.
Sarelle, thank you for sharing - I can relate. I had a 2nd grade teacher who put me in the “low reading group” which affected me and pretty much everything at school. She also punished me in class and afterwards, too, when there was no one around. And told me not to tell my parents or they would get hurt, too. Fortunately, we moved toward the end of that year and things improved so much. My new teacher was safe and loving, I made great friends. I suddenly was considered “advanced” and put into a talented and gifted program the next year. And I read “Gone with the Wind” when I was 9.
And I went to an Ivy League for grad school.
Although my resentment toward Mrs. Wallace has dissolved, I wonder sometimes how the echo of this experience subtly impacts me. Congratulations on your two masters degrees and your lovely writing. I know others will appreciate your story!