Her name was Mrs. Pratt.

She wore those horrible screw-on earrings, ones that were bright red to ostensibly look like cherries that had miraculously fallen from the sky and stuck to her lobes. She used to wear the blends that were popular in the late 70's (and continued with the tragically fashion unconcious throughout the 80's)-the matching vest and trouser combo complete with the crease down the front of the leg. The material was invariably some kind of completely unnatural poly blend that was so flame retardent you could wear it on the sun. The trouser suits were of the sympathetic cherry or violent purple color, just in case you were working on a color blind test. Her hair was an enormous grey puffball that rose strategically from the top of her head and ended somewhere just beneath the fluorescent lights. She was the uncool Marge Simpson prototype, a future poster child for Dippity-Do.

And she hated me.

A lot.

You think that teachers shouldn't really hate pupils, but from Day One I was Queen of the Unpopular. There really was a vendetta against me, I wasn't paranoid (and my therapist backs that up, I'm not actually a paranoid person, I dabble in a palatte of other crazy colors.) She hated me from the minute I walked into her class and loved my best friend, another little girl named Helen. It made for an incredibly rough year.

It was 1979 and I was 5 years old, entering kidnergarten.

Mrs. Pratt made sure that I had it rough. She came down hard on me while idolizing my mate. I am not sure why this was-I know of one incident involving a poorly-planned and executed nose picking bonanza during a math session which may have something to do with it, but beyond that I see no clear reason for her angst. I used to sit on the teeny-tiny chairs at a teeny-tiny table, the table marked by the existence of "the trouble-makers", including a confused over-Christian girl named Ruth that I imagine is now in prison somewhere and busy being someone's bitch. I got ignored by Mrs. Pratt a lot, which was ok with me. After a while I realized Ruth at the teeny-tiny table was struggling with reading. Since at that time I had no ability to predict her future in shiv-making, I helped her out.

I remember my mom having a conversation with her on the phone. "Of course Helen can read," my Mom said, twirling the long phone cord around her hand. "She's been able to read since before she turned 4."

My mother listened.

"That's great that she's helping another student learn how to read. But I knew she could read, I guess the question is, why didn't you know?" My mother asked in an example of touché, before I knew what touché was.

I had been able to read since before I turned 4. I wrote my first poem just after turning 4, standing on a chair to be able to reach the table, wielding my big pencil and my Big Chief writing tablet. Strangely for a swiss cheese memory I remember the poem, and I remember the day I wrote it. I wanted to be different from the "roses are red" bullshit, so it started out as "Daffodils are yellow and peanuts are brown". Hey-the world would not be the same if all the impressionists had just carried on. Thank God cubism came in for a while and screwed up perception!

Mrs. Pratt was the worst. Of course, there were other bads-my first grade teacher Mrs. Blanchard put me in a remedial reading course once she realized that I could read, but I read by memory. I didn't understand phonetics, they made absolutely no sense to me, and so sounding out a word wasn't possible. I had to ask someone what the word was and then I knew it. At the time this was unacceptable-that I was able to read wasn't enough, I should understand all the little hyphens and dashes that go with it-so I was put in a remedial reading class with Junior, who had a form of Down's Syndrome, and Alexis, who was autistic.

All this because of the fucking schwa sound.

To which I now say: Fuck you, Mrs. Blanchard. I have studied 4 languages and give a mean blow job, none of it thanks to your bloody Hooked on Phonics. The upside down e has not changed my life in any way, shape or form. Now reconsider the horizontal stripe shirts, ok?

I had bad teachers-once I walked in on my male high school drama teacher giving a blow job to another male high school drama teacher when I walked into the costume storage room unannounced. I had a poetry teacher who used the words "belly button" too many times, and as I have a navel phobia I went right off him. I had a chemistry teacher with a 70's porn mustache who finally just passed me to be done with me, as he couldn't take my histrionics in trying to pass his class.

I have had a few good teachers as well. I had a nice sweet teacher with a tragic perm in third grade, a woman named Mrs. Altman. She made time for all of her students and only slapped her forehead against her hand when I managed to release all the fruit flies for our science experiment in one misplanned moment involving a step and a clumsy Helen.

My sixth grade teacher, Mr. Gruber, was a good guy too. He was kind and easy going and had the hots for my mother. He encouraged us to talk politics (thus introducing me to the word "coup", which is a valuable part to any daily conversation). He was fair and had a massive loft in his classroom that we could all climb up and read in, something that I imagine insurance would prohibit today.

We all had some suck teachers. Mine were just unable to encourage, they didn't actually introduce physical harm. Angus' stories-whether a factor of a different generation or because he was in English schools-are far worse. He of course had to wear the jacket, tie and short pants for many years (all year-round even in the winter), which his cruel-hearted bitch of a girlfriend finds to be super-cute and just a bit hilarious as she pictures Christopher Robin in her head (and he did actually grow up just next to Pooh Bridge and the Hundred Acre Wood, which in reality is the Five Hundred Acre Wood. So my visions of Christopher Robin aren't too far off.) Of course, she's a little aghast to hear that the short-panted school boys had their calves whipped with shoelaces if they were running too slow in gym class, but then again we had paddling in some of the schools I went to, and I'm not talking about the kind of paddling that involves canoes.

I asked Angus about his worst teacher last night. He answered without hesitation.

"Mr. Dipley and Mr. Singh," he said sipping a glass of wine. "Mr. Dipley was bloody mental. He was a Rhodesian who taught woodworking"-which is perhaps why in our current woodworking class Angus had blocked out some of the basics-"who would throw chisels at us when he was angry."

Right.

Perhaps not so much a bad teacher as someone who should be charged with assault.

"He'd throw chisels at you?" I asked, dazed.

"Oh yes. He never pegged anyone but he threw chisels. We'd get him back. Invariably one of us would throw a chisel into the ceiling and have it stick and Mr. Dipley would spend the entire class searching for it. He'd finally figure out it was hanging from the ceiling and have to get it down, but he never caught on that each time a chisel was missing he should just look up."

"And Mr. Singh?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

"Mr. Singh taught chemistry and he was the doziest man I've ever met. We would set fire to the benches with the Bunsen burners and he never noticed. We were always blowing something up and he didn't even see it."

Sounds like Mr. Singh was less of a bad teacher, more someone suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

While it would be nice to hold a cherished memory of a teacher in the heart, if they have 30+ kids to teach and you're busy with your finger up your nose you're going to get the negative zones. Schools are for surviving, they're not for precious memories. At the end of the day I guess teachers are more a matter of survival, as opposed to someone that will imprint on you forever.

Unless, of course you get hit with a flying chisel. I suppose that imprint would really scar.

-H.

PS-if you can, give some love to Statia. Even if you don't know her well enough to love her, a least try. A little forced love goes a long way for someone who's just been through a big one.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:39 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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