Entry#6: Socks and Underwear

My first grade teacher, Miss Smith, was a quite possibly the most frightening individual I've ever encountered. She was tall, thin, and had a shrill voice that could clog toilets and make birds spontaneously combust. She was also quite young, and it must have been her first year because the principal was in and out of our class room quite a bit.

She ran her room like a mini Stalag where 6-year-olds laboured with crayons and scissors under her hawklike gaze to produce signs of our learning. Nothing hung on the pale green cinderblock walls, no colourful pictures or charts, like in today's rooms. There was no "Reading Corner" or "Listening Corner" or "Crafts Corner"...just four long rows of mismatched desks that faced the blackboards, squeaky plastic and metal chairs, and the ever-present hum of the banks of fluorescent lights overhead. Behind us, at a large wooden desk stacked with papers and where languished one tiny ivy, sat Miss Smith. It was completely unnerving to know she sat behind us, able to see everything; even more upsetting to know she could, without a sound, sneak up behind you. You'd look up casually from the paper airplane you were folding to find her looming over you like a dark specter, fire in her eyes and her Afro shooting off sparks of rage. Without a word her long scarlet talons would snatch your illegal airplane from your hand with the accuracy of a hunting bird of prey seizing its catch, crumple the paper in her fist, and throw it without miss into the round metal bin.

I once overheard the other first grade teacher, Mrs Parker, remarking to Miss Smith how quiet her class room always was, and it was no wonder to me. We were all terrified of her screaming rages. If someone dropped a crayon, the rest of us would freeze, eyes wide, and watch as Miss Smith stopped whatever it was she was doing, storm over, her high heeled shoes clicking so fast it sounded like machine gun fire, pick up the crayon, slam it on the desk, and shout, "DON'T INTERRUPT THE CLASS AGAIN!" in the offender's face. Several times she took away our recess because we were "too rotten to go out and play with the other kids, so this is what you get". You could see, as each person entered the room in the morning, how the shoulders would hunch up and the head would droop. Miss Smith loved bringing kids to tears, then calling them babies for crying. And because everyone thought this was how first grade was supposed to be, no one ever said anything.

That was the year I missed more school days than any other in my career (minus my 7th grade year when I was out of school for two weeks with hives and nearly landed in Intensive Care). I'd wake in the morning, and the sinking realisation would hit me that I'd have to spend 6 hours locked in a class room with Miss Smith screaming at us for the smallest infractions and forcing us to heel with ghastly threats. It made me so anxious my stomach would knot, and before I knew it, I'd be crouched over the john, violently ill, with my mom wondering what on earth was happening to me and why I spent so much time puking in the upstairs toilet.

There was one child that seemed immune to Miss Smith's furies, and that was Kenyata. When she screamed in his face, he'd laugh right back at hers. He was the worst behaved child in the class, throwing spit balls, making farting noises with his hands, anything he could do to disrupt Miss Smith's strict order. And she hated him. He'd come to class about two months after school started, a late transfer, and from that point on, he owned her. You could see it on her face that he had the upper hand and knew it.

Her screaming rages became directed solely at him, a relief to the rest of us but chilling nonetheless. She did everything she could to intimidate him like she had the rest of us, but he would not break. His desk was moved next to hers to separate him from his friends, but all that did was move his obnoxiousness right into her lap. When it was Silent Reading time, he'd whistle, ever so softly, "Stayin' Alive". When the class got too quiet, he'd purposely knock his book to the floor with a clatter and shout, "OH GOD, I DONE KNOCK MY BOOK TO THE FLO'! OH JESUS, SAVE ME!" He'd let out long, juicy farts with a satisfied grin, knowing that he was gassing Miss Smith's kinky hair straight and that she was the only person reaping his methane whirlwind.

If I hadn't been so afraid of the woman, I probably would've laughed my head off at his torture of her because she so richly deserved it. Aside from the general level of horror she instilled in each of us, I had a personal axe to grind with her: one day, I'd lost track of my lunch ticket and couldn't find it in my desk, my pockets, anywhere. I was always anxiety-prone as a kid, and the idea of not eating lunch was mortifying.

Instead of sending the kids ahead to the cafeteria with another class, she lined them all up at the door and made them wait while she grabbed my desk and flipped it upside down, shaking it violently so that all my neatly organised folders, notebooks, and everything in my pencil box came smashing down to the floor with an almighty crash. It took every bit of my self control not to burst into tears at the humiliation, especially when she snapped, "This is just like you to lose the ticket. Now you'll have to go to the office and ask for a free lunch. And you're not going out to recess until you clean up this mess." And she spun on her heel, turned out the lights, and marched off with the class, leaving me alone in the darkened class room sobbing quietly into my hands.

So when Kenyata stepped into our world and began to terrorize Miss Smith, I felt no sorrow for her whatsoever. She deserved every bit of hell she got from him, and boy, did he hand her it to her in bucketfuls. Every day. Non-stop.

Worse, perhaps, than her tyrannical conniptions was her weapon of choice. Miss Smith had a hard wooden yardstick that she used to point to things on the board, to hold up when she wanted our attention, and to slam on the desk of someone whose mind happened to be wandering. The loud CLACK! was heard dozens of times a day, and you knew your number was up when she was marching toward you, stick in hand and crocked over her shoulders, ready to smack on your desk (or your hand, if you weren't quick enough to get it out of the way). She even used it to pummel our behinds if we weren't standing in line straight enough or moving too slowly. I don't know when corporal punishment left the schools officially, but in Miss Smith's class room, it was still 1870, and kids were there to be beaten. That yardstick whistled through the air so many times that I began to twitch whenever I heard a high-pitched noise or anyone mentioned the word "stick". It's no wonder I was a nervous wreck when I was in first grade.

One afternoon, Kenyata had been particularly wretched, and Miss Smith lost it completely. She went over to his desk, screaming and purple in the face, yardstick raised like a cudgel, and hit the back of his chair so many times her weapon snapped in half. The top part went hurtling across the class room, the bottom stayed tight within her claw. She paused, staring aghast at the remains of her beloved yardstick, and walked away without another word. For the rest of the year, she pointed to things on the black board with the splintered end of her yardstick, and we were all a bit relieved that she didn't have the reach she once did. She didn't whack us as often, either, so I hoped she'd had a change of heart.

Shortly before Christmas, a new student came into our class. Her name was Rachel, her hair was cornrowed, and she always wore a denim jumpsuit with white boots. She was also the slowest, thickest, most dim-witted child I have ever come across (and that includes a decade of teaching). Looking back, I think she was mildly retarded, and Miss Smith resented having her in her class room where Kenyata was already more than she could handle. Miss Smith sat Rachel next to her desk where she could work with her one on one, but it did no good. Rachel always stared blankly out the window, her mouth hanging open and a cloud over her eyes. I don't know why she was in a regular class room and not a Special Ed class where she clearly needed to be. Who knows why things happen, and when you're a kid, you don't know how to ask the questions you're really wondering.

One day in early December, Miss Smith instructed us to get out our crayons which we did without hesitation. She then passed out a ditto'd picture of a Santa Claus and told us to colour it. She then announced that there would be a Secret Santa Gift Exchange. As there was an even number of boys and girls in our class, each girl got a girl, and each boy got a boy. We were to buy an appropriate gift under $10.00, wrap it, write "To (name) From (our name)", and the last day before school vacation, we'd exchange them. The name of our recipient had been sent home in a sealed envelope to our parents. Simple.

I dutifully obeyed the rules, found a lovely gift, wrapped it, and brought it to school when I was supposed to. For the last hour of the day, we would have a gift exchange and a Christmas party. Miss Smith actually seemed to loosen up during the party, smiling and giving out hugs and warm wishes. It was a relief, and it made me think that things might actually be better in the new year.

Then it was time for the gift exchange. We all sat, obediently, at our desks with our wrapped presents before us. When Miss Smith called our name, we were to get up and present the package to its recipient. Not very exciting, but it had a minor thrill for a little kid.

When Miss Smith called Rachel's name, I saw her get to her feet and lumber over to my row. I remember thinking, Oh no, not her...of all people, NOT HER. But it was indeed Rachel who placed on my desk a largish beribboned package wrapped in merry paper. It was soft and squishy, and I hoped it was a stuffed animal or some such.

At last the time came when we were allowed to open the presents. The room filled with the sounds of tearing paper, then excited exclamations. All around me, girls were happily beholding their packets of Tinkerbell perfume, stuffed Christmas animals, mittens, hats, toys, everything. The boys were shouting out when they beheld toy cars, tanks, action figures, and the sorts of things that boys generally like at Christmastime.

One person sat alone, tears down her face, mortified at what her package had held. And that was me.

Because Rachel hadn't given me a wonderful Christmas gift, something shiny or sparkly or that smelled good. She'd given me one of the worst, most embarrassing things I could've gotten.

She'd given me socks and underwear.

BOYS' socks and underwear.

Dark blue crew socks and tighty whities.

Miss Smith came over, wondering why I wasn't bobbing up and down with joy and happiness. I tried to rewrap the gift and shove it into my desk so no one would see and laugh at me. But she was too quick and grabbed the present from my shaking hands, scowling. She pushed the paper aside, and her face went blank.

"I'm...I'm sorry..." I whispered, even though I'd done nothing wrong.

Miss Smith looked at me, confused. "Who gave this to you?" she whispered.

"R-Rachel..."

That seemed to explain everything. She knelt down next to me and said, "I'm really sorry." Then she stood straight up, grasping the present close to her so no one could see, and went back to her desk.

I spent the rest of the party silently nibbling my Christmas cookies, watching with tears in my eyes as everyone enjoyed their wonderful new gifts. Slowly, however, word leaked out what had happened, and even though some teased me, most were sympathetic of my bad luck and deemed Rachel completely and utterly dumb.

Two minutes before we were to be dismissed, Miss Smith called me quietly to her desk. She handed me a tiny wrapped package and instructed me to open it. Inside was a little plastic billfold with the words, "Seasons Greetings From Your Teacher" stamped on it in gold letters. I opened it up and found a little comb and...mirabile dictu! TWO WHOLE DOLLARS.

Stunned, I looked up at Miss Smith and was shocked to find her smiling widely at me. "Merry Christmas," she said softly. "Have a great vacation."

Later, on the bus, the ribbing started full-tilt as word got round that I was now in possession of boys' underthings. "Ha ha," they singsonged, flaunting their new gifts in my face. "You didn't get ANYTHING...!"

Calmly I pulled out my new little billfold and took out the money. "Maybe not," I said calmly, "but Miss Smith gave me TWO DOLLARS."

Everyone froze. For a kid in 1977, two dollars (without having to do any work) was a princely sum. "You got WHAT?" somebody exclaimed. "No way! You lie!"

"Nope, no lying. She gave this to me right before we left." I held the two bills up high. "See? TWO DOLLARS" which, at the time, could buy one a shedload of candy, a whole meal at McDonald's, and a lot of other things that kids craved.

Suddenly everyone was looking at their own toys and scowling. "Wish *I* had two dollars," someone else muttered. A particularly snarky kid named Dave piped up, "Two dollars ain't so much. I could get that from my dad any time."

"But you didn't," I replied silkily with a cruel smile. "You don't have it RIGHT NOW, do you?"

My Christmas vacation was awesome. I got a lot of Barbie stuff, and I held onto those two dollars until well into the third grade. I still have the plastic billfold because it reminds me of that day when a teacher put aside who she really was to be something she should've been all along. And when we came back in January, Miss Smith was a lot nicer, and I wound up enjoying the First Grade in the end.