Graduating...Gradually
Leah Subar
"Mommy, can I go back to
gan?"
I can't say that these words came as a shock to me. She's an intelligent little girl, who has been doing fine in first grade, but her highly sensitive nature was bound to affect her classroom experience. She takes things to heart, so that one cross look from a teacher means infinitely more to her than the teacher implied. A slightly critical remark hurts her as if her entire being has been accused.
It makes perfect sense that she would want to return to the safe, fantasy-world of gan where crayons, paint and playtime fill the day. And very little rebuke.
I looked at my daughter with total compassion. I saw in her the little girl that was me, sitting "still as a pin" in Mrs. Pollman's Social Studies class. I was in seventh grade then, but just as sensitive.
Nobody spoke in Mrs. Pollman's class. Nobody moved more than necessary. Mrs. Pollman never smiled or frowned. She never seemed happy or sad; just angry. When she was very upset, she'd grind her teeth.
During silent reading, I never understood what I was reading. I'd start each paragraph with resolve and get lost somewhere in the middle. Each chapter was built on the previous one, so each week I fell further behind. I failed every test except one.
It was a horrible class. Each time the bell rang at the end of the hour, it felt like the first day of summer.
After six weeks we received our first report card: I'd earned a "D." The administration informed me that I could no longer stay in Mrs. Pollman's Social Studies class. I was transferred to the classroom across the hall: Social Studies for Dummies.
I felt embarrassed getting booted like that. But I was thrilled, too. I could breathe again.
My new teacher was a portly woman in her sixties. She loved teaching and took pride in her students. I was top in the class and never got below 98% on any test.
Though I'd done well, it was, after all, just a dummy class. I knew I was a dummy.
Fortunately, even dummies graduate and get married, and I did also. I haven't read about the Bushmen of Africa, the Pilgrims or the Gettysburg Address for a long time. But now it's my daughter's turn and I have to relive the whole dreaded story again.
This time, though, I have a different perspective that I can share with my sensitive daughter that may help her to cope.
A few years ago I was looking through my scrapbook; a collection of childhood pictures and birthday cards my mother saved throughout the years. Flipping through the yellowing pages I came across a 10" x 12" certificate from seventh grade:
This is to certify that
Leah Stillman
has received First Place Award
for Outstanding Achievement in English
Suddenly the memory of the award ceremony came rushing back: There I was walking up to the podium, blushing, taking my award and returning to my seat. I remember later that night leaving the auditorium with my parents, my award in hand: "Outstanding Achievement!"
Now, gazing at my award in the scrapbook, I considered all the smart kids I went to school with. They didn't get this award. I did.
Then it hit me: Mrs. Pollman! The year I got the English award was the same year I flunked Mrs. Pollman's Social Studies class!
How could I have done so poorly in Social Studies and so well in English? Don't the two require similar skills? English, like Social Studies, required us to read, understand, and write essays. Plus, we had to spell everything right.
It's like someone who can open a can of tuna, but not a can of sardines. Was I a dummy or not?
In Mrs. Pollman's class, every bit of brain energy I had was used for the sole purpose of survival; there was nothing left for learning. The need to sneeze was a mini-crisis; an itch on my foot caused panic. To use seventh-grade vernacular: I was, like, stressed to the max. No wonder nothing entered my head.
My reaction to Mrs. Pollman was physical - like an allergy. I failed Social Studies because I was allergic to the teacher.
Allergies are often hereditary. I have passed mine on to my first-grader.
I had some thinking to do. I can't just go pulling my daughter out of every critical teacher's class. Or can I? She is doing well in school, though she's obviously miserable since she wants to go back to kindergarten. It seems the right thing would be to teach her some survival skills, the same ones I have learned to use.
I would teach my sensitive daughter how to survive in a world that does not cater to the sensitive.
The next morning, before school, my daughter said to me, "So, will you let me go to gan?"
"I want to talk to you about that."
"Talk to me? What do you want to talk to me about?"
"About going back to gan," I said.
"Please can I? I just want to go today after school and say 'Hi' to the gannenet. I'll ask someone to cross me over. Please can I?"
"You just want to say 'Hi'?"
"Yeah, I told you yesterday! Remember? Morah Chavi will be so surprised to see me. I bet she'll say, 'Wow! What a big girl you are!'"
"Oh," I said. "I thought you wanted to go back to gan every day."
"Go back to gan? Mommy, you're so funny!"
She gathered up her school bag and headed toward the door.
"So, can I go?" my daughter asked again.
"Yes, you can go," I said. "And while you're there, ask Morah Chavi if there's room for me."
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