I quit school in the third grade. Yep. Didn't go a full day the last six weeks. Now you may be asking how I got away with that. It's a long story, but that's never stopped me before. Here goes:
Something happened to me at school one day. And I was terrified to go back. My parents threatened to spank me, they prayed with me, they tried to bribe me, they dragged me physically to the school house. I would become so upset I would throw up.
Now, it wasn't that I didn't want to go to school - I did - desperately. I did online preparation every night for the next day. By online, I mean telephone line. I called my best friend and she would carefully tell me every homework assignment there was. I picked out my clothes. I had my notebooks and books and purse by the front door so I could grab them on the way out.
But the next morning, I would be an emotional wreck and just couldn't do it.
My mother tells me the last day I went, she had forced me to go with her. When she left me I had tried to run out the front door and the principal was holding me by the arms (poor Mr. Martin!) as I screamed and sobbed after her, begging her not to leave me. She said when she got to work she vowed, crying herself, that if I never went to school another day for the rest of my life, she was done. She'd never make me go again.
I probably didn't stay that whole day. Every time I went, I managed to sneak away at some point and walk home.
They finally took me to a child psychologist. That sounds fine, as many children are sent to pediatric psychologists today. But that was 1962, folks. It just wasn't done. But they were beside themselves, and I guess this was the only thing left.
I remember he was a nice guy, and we chatted. (I think I thought he was cute, too.) He made a few recommendations. The man never figured out what was really wrong, because I had buried it so deeply inside I didn't know, much less know how to tell him.
Recommendation one; have my I.Q. tested (shut up), and two, maybe I did not want to go to school because, since my Daddy had started working at Lockheed, I couldn't see him except on weekends, unless I was home...nah. I mean, I loved my Daddy, but that wasn't it. I didn't care where I was, with our without him, as long as I wasn't at school.
Well, (and I stick my tongue out at all my so-called friends) they tested my I.Q. and it was BIG. Ha. So there. The school suggested I skip on to fourth grade and see if that stimulated me. I had a fit! I didn't want to leave my friends. Were they nuts?
The story ends with my staying at my grandparents every day and my grandfather bringing me home when Mother got off work. Easy-peasy. Don't know why they didn't think of that to start with!
As a side note: When Anna Kate, my twenty-two year old daughter was ten months old, my grandmother was in the hospital at Easter. She wasn't sick, they were running tests on her heart. The nurses colluded to allow us, along with my sister-in-law and 13 month old niece, to visit her room, with the babies all dressed up in their Easter finery. My grandmother's roommate just happened to be my poor old third grade teacher.
She lamented how she had suffered that year, not sleeping well, trying to figure out what in the world was wrong, and had she done something to contribute to my distress. The lady was now up in her nineties, and I felt like a dog. I assured her she had nothing to do with it, that I had loved her dearly.
So, she asked, what in the world happened to you at school to make it so terrible for you?
Fifty years later? Still stumped.
No comments :
Post a Comment