Summer is over and the rumor is this school business I’ve heard about is going to start. As I talked about in Chapter II, my “neighborhood“ was really expanding. What a great adventure it was to board the yellow school bus heading for parts unknown, or Brownell School, whichever came first.
For whatever reason, my parents started me in the first grade, rather than kindergarten, with Miss Brown as my first teacher. I remember her as a pretty woman with black hair, black glasses, and a black dress. I’m sure she had other dresses, but that’s the only one I remember.
The school building itself was the last of the real old school style, built in the early forties. It had a porch with an archway leading to the front door. When you entered there was a circular atrium from which the different classrooms branched off. The structure was made predominately of wood rather than the concrete and tile floor of most schools of today. The building itself no longer exists; replaced by an empty lot in a now bad neighborhood. Gone forever are the great smells and atmosphere unique to this style of school building.
Original Gangster
I attended Brownell for just one year because a new more modern school was completed closer to my house. Second grade found me at Lakeview School across from my favorite childhood place, Lakeview Park. Mrs Peters was my second grade teacher, followed by Mrs. Gerber- 3rd, Miss Manley-4th, and Mr. Berry through half of 5th. I’ll explain a little later why it was only half a year.
In a stark contrast to my later academic habits, I was a good and well behaved student. At that time all you got for grades were O’s for outstanding, S for satisfactory, and U for unsatisfactory. What meant the most to me were the nice side notes my teachers would write about me on the report cards. I won many spelling bees, but my crowning achievement of elementary excellence was winning the fifth grade prize for best report on the United Nations. The prize was a crappy book about the U.N. autographed by the school Principal; not cool. What was cool, was knowing for that moment, I was the best in all of the 5th grade. My chest is still a little bigger to this day because of it. (And I still have the book!)
It is my theory we learn much of what we know about ourselves and our relationship with others by the third or fourth grade. After that we just get older and think we can change the root of who we are. We over emphasize what we think is appealing to others and then build a facade around our weaknesses thinking no one notices. The result of this approach to life is never really feeling free to express the inner beauty of our true selves. Exposing our vulnerabilities to others not only brings freedom of mind and soul to us, but also to those around us who long to be free as well. Sorry, I got off on a little tangent; back to school.
It goes without saying recess was the biggest attraction of elementary school. At Lakeview School outdoor recess was all about two things; the boy’s version of a Maypole, and kick ball. During the winter months we had gym class, featuring dodge ball. Nothing manlier at that age than taking a hard rubber dodge ball flush in the face and holding off tears and embarrassment.
To me, the second biggest attraction in the third grade was Carol Zagorski. She was by far the prettiest girl in the whole school. Curley blond hair to her shoulders and her blue eyes added up to my first known crush. She was the first, but not the last girl to teach me, pretty girls can make us men do stupid things. I devised a fool-proof plan to win her favor. I sacrificed a nickel from my lunch money (previously earmarked for a bottle of chocolate milk) to buy her a Chuckles candy bar. A Chuckle was made up of six different flavored licorice squares made to share. I envisioned me showing her a clever physical trick, so wowing her that we would soon be walking hand in hand sharing my gift of Chuckles. Didn’t exactly work out that way. The trick required me to walk with my head back so I couldn’t see where I was going. I proceeded to walk directly into a telephone pole in front of the school, opening a deep gash in my chin. Bleeding profusely, I dropped the candy and ran into the nurse’s office. Walking back outside while gathering what was left of my dignity, I saw her talking and laughing with the most popular guy in school. She was offering him one of my Chuckles. I walked away with two scars; one under my chin and one in my heart. Does some version of this story sound familiar to anyone, whether you be a man or woman?
