1955 • San Jose ~ Jefferson Elementary was like all grammar schools, filled with the noise of kids screaming, whistles blowing, and bells ringing. I paid careful attention to my teacher, Miss Harrison, but when she started writing too many numbers on the blackboard, which was green, my mind wandered where it wasn’t so crowded, spending most of its time outside the window, my thoughts drifting around with the quiet sycamores and floating clouds.
I wasn’t about to raise my hand and ask a question. I might get called on, or worse yet, be wrong. I didn’t like sitting in the middle of the room; anywhere on the side or the back, even the front, was better. Quietly observing from the edges, I prayed no one would notice me. I ached to suck my fingers but didn’t want to be called a baby, so I bit my nails instead.
There were things I liked about second grade: reading stories, practicing letters, drawing houses with a peaked roof, a green door, one window and a straight row of tulips in the front yard. And lunch. One day a week I got to eat in the cafeteria, buying a red lunch ticket for a quarter. I liked the feel of the molded trays and thought it was neat the way they were sectioned so the fish sticks, creamed corn, fruit cocktail and JELL-O wouldn’t touch. I never have liked my food touching. Even though the cafeteria meal was good, the pitch and clanging in there made me a wreck, so I usually brought my lunch in a brown bag, lettered with my name and room number, so I could eat outside.
The playground was deadly. The swings, merry-go-round, and teeter-totter were designed to make me throw up or break my scrawny neck. At recess, the other kids played tetherball, kickball, and dodgeball: games that in my opinion were way too dangerous. It was a shock having a ball smashed in my face, kicked in my stomach, or slammed at my back. It hurt. A swinging bat once cracked me in the mouth, splitting my lips and breaking my upper front tooth in half, confirming every belief I held about the dangers of playground weaponry. Foursquare was more to liking; no one was allowed to try to do away with me.
We marched outside for weekly fire drills, holding hands two-by-two, boys in one line, girls in the other, moving away from the low one-story building that was built like a bunker and wouldn’t burn even if it had been doused with gasoline. During air-raid practice to protect us from Communist invaders, we crouched like rolled up pill bugs under our wood-top desks with unused inkwells, our arms protecting our heads, the boys scanning the room and snickering at all the girl’s flowered cotton panties in full bloom. There was never any nuclear attack. Like an inch-thick desktop was going to protect me. Oh please! I had plenty of other dangers in my life to fret about.
I remember a lot about second grade. We had finger paints and watercolors, pull-down maps and afternoon naps. I can still feel the damp winter cloakroom with its piles of dripping raincoats and soggy boots. I remember the screech of chalk and the ticking clock and the whirl of the sharpener by Miss Harrison’s desk. I remember the aroma of paste, of buff paper with wood slivers and blue lines, of clouds of chalk dust from pounded erasers. I even remember how it tasted: graham crackers and cold milk and chewed Ticonderoga pencils, the eraser seldom used on mine; I was careful not to make mistakes. I remember Dick and Jane. “See Spot run. Run, Spot, run.” I knew exactly how Spot felt. I wanted to run, too.
I liked bank day. I’ve been banking with Bank of America since I was in the second grade. Every other Friday I brought my nickels and dimes to school, turning in my passbook and coins in a small drawstring sackcloth bag. Magically, the passbook returned the next week, my latest deposits handwritten on the ledger. It wasn’t so much the money I saved over time that I cared much about, it was my name printed on the inside of my passbook cover. I had three things that were of utmost importance to me: my small green bankbook, my report cards, and my library card. They all contained my name, confirming my existence.
I didn’t have a yellow slicker with a matching billed hat that snapped under my chin, but I wanted one. And I wanted a Brownie uniform too, in the worst way. Most of the girls in my class were Brownies and they all wore their uniforms to school on Thursdays. After weeks of hinting and trying not to beg her, my mother finally gave in and took me shopping for the brown dress with the shiny gold sash, my only store-bought dress. We got the socks too. However, it hadn’t occurred to me that being a Brownie meant going to troop meetings. I only went to one; it was more painful than school. I didn’t want to have to be with the girls and their sashes covered with pins and badges, their hair bouncy and curly. I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to look like them, to feel like I fit in.
to be continued…
© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.
Barbara Jacobsen says
My class picture (Grant School, SF) looks exactly like yours! Only I look more spaced out. Thanks for bringing back those amazing smells, tastes, sounds, and report cards (“Barbara talks too much”), and dear Dick and Jane. When we moved to the country I hid in the girls’ bathroom during P.E. while they played softball, basketball and other scary sports. Childhood feels like a Fellini movie!
Susie Price says
Your descriptions so bring back memories. It was during Christmas break that our family left Waukesha, Wisconsin to drive to Whittier in southern California for a new life. Changed schools mid-year. Went from a three story 1890s school building (yes, those wooden-topped desks with the empty inkwell) to a one story, “modern” school building with modern all steel desks. And that dangerous playground equipment you described is not allowed any more. So sad to think of that little 2nd grader, Cathy, who was so anxious. I was a bit anxious too at that age, but for different reasons.
Catherine Sevenau says
Anxiety is deep-seated in me; I’m so used to it I’m unaware of it. It’s low-level, but it’s there. And, I also flow with an ease of which I’m equally unaware. The veils we wear that determine how we be…
Deborah Bennett says
…and yet, look at you in your class picture. You have an inner glow, a radiance, that is missing in most of your classmates’ faces. If I didn’t know better I’d mistake it for joy.
Catherine Sevenau says
I do look happy in that photo. I see someone got a hold of me the day before with the scissors and a new Toni.
Arden Fenwick says
Broken homes break kids too. I know! If you can’t trust your folks, who can you trust? I felt every moment. Good stuff!
Susan Dalberg says
Our little Catherine, quiet no more!!! I wanted to blend into the wallpaper, but I talked too much!!! My teacher was Mr. Van Gorton—how the H do I remember that? I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday! Humor aside, sad little girl. Teacher should have noticed and taken time to hug!!!
Kay Guetter says
My heart breaks for this little girl. So much anxiety for a 2nd grader.