That's not to say I didn't grow up in a rich storytelling environment. I did, but my family specialized in the tall tale rather than realistic fiction. If the anecdote couldn't be exaggerated and acted out, it probably wasn't worth telling. Oral tradition ruled the day.
When I entered first grade, I found myself a titch bored with rote phonics lessons, but enamored with my little red desk. The functional piece featured a solid top and one big opening for all my possessions---and I was such a clever child.
If I squirreled away paper in just the right position, I could write my stories while other students toiled away learning their alphabet sounds. My teacher might be old and scary, but she'd certainly never encountered this trick before. I was just that bright.
The old woman circled around the class as she taught, using a yardstick to point up at letters on the wall. If she called on you to recite a sound, you would keep working at it until you got it. She never-ever provided the mercy of calling on another student to answer for you. That woman would latch on and make your life miserable until you knew the right answers.
So that day I wasn't particularly worried about the teacher's circling. She'd vice-gripped her attention on a little boy in the front row and already completed several laps around the room. While she waited for him to guess every sound he could imagine and work through at least three rounds of bargaining with God, I scribbled.
The yard stick came out of nowhere. I heard it whistle by my ear before it smacked down on that pretty desk with the loudest THWACK I could imagine.
I jumped so high I almost toppled out of my chair. My pencil and paper fell to the floor.
The old lady grabbed me by the ear and pulled me to the front of the classroom. She had a reputation for this and we all thought it must hurt horribly, but really the humiliation was the worst of it. The horror of being dragged from my desk in front of all those kids made tears spring to my eyes. She dropped me in a chair, where she could "keep an eye on me" and then turned back to the poor kid who couldn't think what sound W-H made in combination. Only moments earlier, I'd felt sorry for him, but now I'd earned his pity.
When the teacher kept me in from recess, I was pretty sure I was done for. None of the other students would ever see me again. I wished I'd told my mom I loved her.
After all the other kids disappeared from the room, our teacher click-click-clicked over to my desk and snatched the paper from the floor.
Yes. I know. Not only wasn't I paying attention in class, I also spent my time telling stories---lying. And why was I lying? Oh, it was time for my own bargaining with God. I was lying because it was fun.
The click of her heels returned to me more slowly. She must be devising a fitting death for a child so bad.
When she stopped at a big wooden cabinet, I wondered what instrument of torture she had inside.
She hovered. I winced. Then, gently, she placed a piece of red construction paper in front of me. She folded it in two and ripped it apart. Then she took my paper and ripped it in two.
And then she did the damndest thing. She placed those sheets of my story inside the red paper and she grabbed something from her desk.
Her fist came down hard. . . on a stapler.
I jumped again.
She turned the pages toward me. "Your book needs a cover."
I never saw it coming.
I never forgot it.
She was the best teacher ever.
What a great story!ReplyDelete
Vivid memories eh Joanna! Those who inspire us on our journey live with us forever!ReplyDelete
such a magical story... I think many of us have very similar ones. Thank you for sharing this Johanna, it's a reminder of where and when it all began XReplyDelete
You poor little thing, left all alone to fend off the dragon lady, only to be discovered telling stories. A gripping and terrific story of your storytelling origins, Johanna, thanks for this. Just keep telling stories and we'll make sure we never run out of covers for them.ReplyDelete
Thank you, Liz!ReplyDelete
So true. We have so many teachers in our lives.ReplyDelete
Thank you, Zehra. Those childhood impressions remain so strong and vivid.ReplyDelete
Thank you, Jess. I read this story to my 6yo daughter and saw my then-emotions play out on her face. She gave me a big hug afterward and patted my head.ReplyDelete
Ok - you yanked my heart out with this one. The story began and I was ready to do battle on your behalf (you're so cute in the picture!!) and then . . . you are a marvelous writer. And your teacher surely recognized this even at the earliest stage.ReplyDelete
"I wished I’d told my mom I loved her." Great line. I laughed out loud. Thanks for the great story.ReplyDelete
Johanna, that is one of the best "how I became a writer" stories I have heard to date. Out of the dozens of teachers we encounter, we only need one ... that one single person who for some reason sees into us and knows who we really are. Loved this post, the picture (how adorable), the memory of your teacher and the beginnings of a life-long love of the word. Thanks for sharing :)ReplyDelete
So many excellent lines in this story "oral tradition ruled the day" and "three rounds of bargaining with God" are two of my favorite. Great timing, wonderful surprise ending. I guess the teacher, although a bit harsh, could recognize real talent!ReplyDelete
That is awesome!!!!! And it brought tears to my eyes, I swear. Love it when you hear stories of amazing teachers we never forget. I had an English teacher once who threw a paperback book at me...across the room. Everybody ducked. It was one of those required reading things and it was horrible and I was reading something else instead. I hadn't read the chapters we were supposed to be up to, and he made a horrible spectacle of me. After class he called me up and asked me what I was reading. He told me to read two chapters each night of the required one before reading for fun, but to never ever stop reading for fun. We got to talking about books and compared what we were reading every week after that. He would talk to me about what I wanted to be and college ideas over the year. He was a scary and crazy teacher, but I never forgot him.ReplyDelete
I love the way you wrote this, Johanna!! I was right there with your first grade self! :)
What a great story and I love a good story. A teacher can make all the difference in the world. My first grade story isn't as positive. I'm glad yours was.ReplyDelete
Great story Johanna.ReplyDelete
I keep saying I love your blogs and I'll say it again-love your blog posts.ReplyDelete
I could never cause trouble in my class, so I looked out the window and daydreamed my stories.
I felt your shame. I was angry with the teacher. How dare she do that to you. Then I got to the end. It was the darnest thing, there was all this moisture in my eyes. What a great story.ReplyDelete
Great post, Johanna. I'm like Mary. Stared out the windows into all kinds of strange lands. Didn't put pencil to paper until I was in 8th grade and wrote a play. :)ReplyDelete
Thanks for sharing this story. It remeinds all of us to look a little deeper at the people we see around us who we are so quick to judge. As a former teacher and retired elementary principal, boy was I ever judging your teacher. Glad it all turned out so well.
As usual, I'm late to the party.ReplyDelete
That was a great Story. I mean this one, though the one you wrote then must have been pretty good too.
Thanks for this bit of Charming at the end of childhood Harrowing. Your are today's Queen of the Twisty Ending!
Thank you so much, Liz. Your comments mean the world to me.ReplyDelete
What a wonderful story, Johanna. I too remember getting in trouble--for reading, not writing-- while I was supposed to be learning the alphabet. I don't remember anything but the humiliation, but I'm pretty sure it didn't have a happy ending like this one.ReplyDelete
How lucky you were to have such an encouraging teacher. She obviously recognized your talent. Thanks for sharing this memory.
I love that I made you laugh. Humor is such a weird thing. I can never tell if something is going to be funny to anyone but me.ReplyDelete
It was a teacher who first took my writing seriously, too. :) God bless 'em!ReplyDelete
Thank you so much, Florence. And yes! It only takes on teacher. They are amazing, aren't they?ReplyDelete
I love your specific feedback, Jason. And yeah, she was harsh, but she knew how to make an impression. :)ReplyDelete
I had that too, when I was 16. I should have paid more attention.ReplyDelete