Elementary School

Though it was eons ago, I still, on occasion, think back on my days as an elementary school student. For some reason I fondly remember my very first day in the first grade. My teacher’s name was Miss Cunin. She was old, probably even over 30, but she was beautiful, and it was love at first sight. As far as I was concerned, Miss Cunin was an angel, and school promised to be heaven on earth. Even when, after recess, she accidentally closed my fingers in the schoolyard door, my love affair was undiminished. When she personally escorted me to the nurse’s office, I couldn’t help but cry with joy. When, misinterpreting my sobs, she gave me a tender hug, I nearly peed my pants. I can’t imagine a much better introduction to formal education than I experienced with Miss Cunin. I was learning, I was happy, and my grades were all “Excellent” (this was back in the day when students actually got grades, but that’s another story).

If first grade was heaven, second grade was pure purgatory. Mrs. Walters was really old, probably over 50, not particularly attractive, and weighed in at about 300 pounds (not that there is anything wrong with that). She didn’t like me at all. I probably shouldn’t have taken it personally: she didn’t much like anyone. She had no use for students in general and second grade students in particular. She had a great deal of use for rulers, but not as an instrument for measuring. Unruly students, which seemed to be all students all the time, would regularly receive a firm slap on the palm of the hand to “get their attention.” In her defense, it was always and only the palm of the left hand (considerate, unless you happened to be left-handed), and even though it stung like heck, it never did any permanent damage. I did wonder, though, why a person who so obviously didn’t like children and teaching would become a teacher in the first place. It must have been for the fabulous salaries that teachers received in those days (yeah, right).

I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade except for the day the fourth graders all got school physical exams. For better or worse this was soon after I discovered that girls were far less annoying and far more interesting than I had previously thought. The day began by dividing up the class into a boy’s changing room and a girl’s changing room. Changing, it turned out, meant stripping down to your underwear and wrapping yourself in a towel (unless you forgot to bring a towel, in which case it meant standing around in your underwear). Towels were rare as students lined up outside the nurse’s room door and, interestingly enough, it didn’t seem important any longer to segregate the boys from the girls. I vividly remember having very mixed emotions that day. I was, of course, embarrassed about being practically naked in front of my classmates, especially my girl classmates. Yet, being naturally curious, I was also fascinated by the impromptu lesson in female anatomy. And, I must admit, I was somewhat aroused by the abundance of nearly naked girls which surrounded me. I might even have bumped into one of those girls (specifically, Betty Densmore, an almost-girlfriend a few years later, but that’s another story) a few times as the line moved slowly forward: not nearly slowly enough.

In the fifth grade, I was “teacher’s pet.” My teacher, Mrs. Grannura (we referred to her as Mrs Granola, but never to her face), had worked, years before, with my father at a large chemical company. He recollected that they had competed for the same promotion, which he received, so he was somewhat perplexed as to why she seemed so taken with me. But taken she was, and in her class I could do no wrong. Don’t get me wrong: this was not a good thing. Good grades and preferential treatment in the classroom didn’t begin to make up for the ribbing and bullying I had to endure outside the classroom, not to mention how unpopular a “teacher’s pet” is with the ladies. I had certainly discovered girls by this time, but they were certainly not about to discover me. My teacher may have doted, but the guys pummeled me, and the gals pretended I was invisible. In retrospect, perhaps Dad shouldn’t have been quite so perplexed.

01/20/11