Fourth
grade was far less eventful than third grade. My teacher was Mrs.
Jones, an older woman who had taught for many years. She seemed old
to me then – I guess it was her gray hair with soft short curls
that made her appear matronly. I can’t really figure now how old Mrs. Jones was when I had her.
Diane,
my best friend, was in my class again, and that fell right into a nice pattern. We decided that the teachers and maybe the principal was in
on this - we were together every other year. We were in
kindergarten and second grade together – and then fourth grade too.
If we didn’t talk too much to each other in class that year, maybe
we’d be together again in sixth grade!
In Mrs. Jones' class, our desks were eventually moved away from each
other for over-chatting – but really, we were good kids.
One
time when we were lined up in the hall to go somewhere, Mrs. Jones
was talking to another teacher and they were walking slowly beside
our line. There was a lull in their conversation when they were
passing by me, and Mrs. Jones noticed me and stopped and said to the
other teacher, “Look at Denise’s dress, here. Her mother sews the
loveliest clothes.” The other teacher agreed with her and they
moved on. I couldn’t tell at the time if Mrs. Jones was being
flattering or sincere – but after all these years, that’s one big
thing I remember about her!
The
other big fourth grade memory is not so happy. Funny yes, happy no.
One day we were all sitting in class – the kids at their desks and
Mrs. Jones up front at her desk. She was talking. And talking and
talking. I was in the row of desks over by the wall next to the
hallway. I realized that I was going to be sick to my stomach, and I
needed to leave the room. The lavatory was just a little bit down the
hall.
I
couldn’t just get up and walk out though, I needed to ask for
permission. Actually, we were only supposed to use the bathroom at
scheduled times unless it was an emergency. Even though I had never
asked for special permission to leave the room before, I thought this
was enough of an emergency to raise my hand and ask to leave.
Mrs.
Jones saw my hand waving in the air and asked that no one
raise hands while she was giving instructions for the
stuff she was talking about!
I put my hand down and felt my face
blush – why did she do that to me?
Soon I realized that I really
really
needed
to leave the room and I stuck my hand back in the air again.
She
looked right at me and did not ask me what I wanted! Mrs. Jones kept
right on talking! I kept my hand waving in the air and a voice inside
of me said I should just walk out of the room without permission.
But I was scared – if I left the room, Mrs. Jones would run after
me, and if I got to the bathroom and didn’t throw-up,
boy would I be in a lot of trouble!
So
I put my hand down
and got out of my chair. I walked to the door, thought about making a grand escape, but then instead walked over to Mrs. Jones’ desk.
She
wouldn’t look at me but kept on talking to the class. Why wouldn’t
she ask me what was the matter? I wasn’t going to disturb her
instructions! I just wanted to go to the bathroom!!!
Mrs.
Jones sat at her desk and looked across the room at the kids. She
kept talking. My face turned from red to green.
Mrs.
Jones took notice of me then!
I
puked on the class book that had attendance and grades marked down!
What
a horrible and yet heroic experience!
Days
later when I returned to school, I heard Mrs. Jones remark to someone
that she learned a valuable lesson that afternoon!
In
all this time since then I thought that there was something about me
that made Mrs. Jones think that I deserved to
be treated that way. Now that I write it all down, though, I realize
the episode was just plain mean!
I
can picture the desperate little girl waving her hand in the air for
help and not getting it and not understanding why – and I can
picture the little girl puking on the teacher’s oh-so-important
desk and papers.
And the bitterness passes, or will
someday.
72 20150313 Mrs. Jones
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