Wise words about memory and how social media impacts it. . .that also hits home because I had a fourth grade teacher like this--not in Forest Hills but in upstate New York who had this very effect on me--and others, I think, but me in particular--we were not a good match and she was not the teacher I needed. So many feelings in my life I can trace back to this fourth grade year. As a writer and college teacher now, I think my whole life in teaching was shaped in opposition to her practices. Strangely my mother, who was later a colleague of hers, rarely wastes an opportunity to mention that she believes I achieved what I did to spite her, as if the treatment she doled out was beneficial somehow. But that's not the kind of person I am--I rarely if ever do anything out of spite. I am more than satisfied with where my life but it certainly would have been different--perhaps better, if I had not had to suffer a shaming, borderline abusive teacher. . .I am also remembering when an elementary school friend posted a first grade picture and then, "does anyone remember how Mrs. XXX used to take us into the bathroom for a spanking when we were in trouble." That treatment I did escape. All of which is to say, how this post resonates, so deeply. I think of those booklets we kept to hold our class photos, our report cards, what we wanted to be when we grew up. Mine was titled, "School Memories." School memories, indeed.
Elissa…. WOW! I am always always always in awe of your words. I read each one, and think my lord what a writer, what a human, what a heart. I long to write like you. Your language. Your story. Breath-taking. XO
Such a fascinating read, thank you. I write a book about my father and me and one publisher who read it asked - exactly as you write about - how can you remember such detail. I’ve no idea, but it feels true, it smells true, so to me it happened just like that, in all that detail
Such an interesting meditation on the way memoirists use memory. I think this is the fascinating aspect of writing about life events. When I wrote my memoir, I opened with a chapter written in my two-year-old voice about my sister's funeral, and, although some will question my memory, I carried a picture of the day across my lifetime. That picture--how the day looked to me as a child is what I wrote. I could have written the chapter from the pov of myself-sixty years later, but I wanted to experiment with memory. I hope it resonates with readers.
here's to growing up in the 70s on the East Coast; this writing sent me into a long pause, laying on the floor, recalling it all. the mean teachers, the wonderful ones, the miracle of getting an education at all, the wondering if that's even the way forward for the future. just wow. so many questions. thank you for this.
Your words about having a bad teacher resonate with me SO much! I had the exact same experience in Australia - even your class photo looks pretty much the same as mine do from that time!
My grade three teacher was an absolute nightmare. She was old and horrible, I don't think I ever saw her smile. She left the classroom once and told us not to leave the room OR ELSE. Of course, as soon as she left I started feeling ill, the kid sitting next to me said I should go to the bathroom, but the teacher had told us to stay put, hadn't she? So I bottled it and bottled it, and then just as the teacher waltzed back into the room, I vomited all over the kid, and the teacher screamed at me for not going to the bathroom!!
In grade seven, just before High School, we changed classes for maths, and my fear, loathing, and anxiety around maths was born. This teacher was the devil incarnate, I tell you. She'd rattle sums off so quickly, you hardly had time to add them up and write the answer down before she moved onto the next sum. Then, I had to go and sprain my right wrist, didn't I? So I'm there trying to write with my left hand, which is soooo much slower than my right, while she's calling out these sums like a machine gun.
Then - the humiliation. Who's got ten out of ten? Hands go up. Nine out of ten? Hands go up. Eight out of ten, etc. I got three out of ten, because I just couldn't write fast enough, and when I slowly raised my hand to admit to my failure, she screamed at me and asked me why I'd done so badly. When I lifted my bandaged hand and opened my mouth to speak, she screamed at me that it was just an excuse and I needed to do better.
Any wonder then, that I HATED maths? I hated it with a passion.
Until I got to Chef School, and had to learn food costing and percentages, and was literally pooping my pants because I'm so bad at maths. The chef lecturer sat down with me and explained the theory and it was a literal mic drop. Oh! Is that all it is?
98% Distinction - in maths!
Good teachers are like gold, but it seems there weren't very many of them in the seventies and early eighties!
Thanks so much for this essay - it's nice to know we didn't suffer alone!
Beautiful essay. I love her writing. It brought back memories of two man junior high school french teachers, although they were not as vicious as your teacher.
An amazing piece of writing. The memories it invokes just reading it is because we're of a similar age. It doesn't matter that I grew up on the other side of the continent. Memories evoked and remembered in fondness are few and far between; sometimes, life throws you a curve ball and all the trauma and nightmares you missed in childhood, come visit you when you're older.
Such a powerful essay, Elissa. You always ask the hard and thought-provoking questions, and I am grateful for that stimulation to my brain! I, too, had a horrible fourth grade teacher. I went to all-girls school (for nine years!), but fourth grade was my first, transitioning from a lovely, happy co-ed primary school. It was such a shock. Among other things, we had a horrible cafeteria, were not allowed to bring our lunches, and were required to eat everything on our tray (and we had to put the food on the tray in the first place). We used to stuff leftover food in orange peels and milk cartons, but one day Mrs. H caught me. It was a watery egg thing that I simply could not eat without throwing up, but she made me sit in the cafeteria while the rest of the class went back until I could manage to eat it. She also gave us HOURS of homework, to the point where I was going to bed after my parents at the age of 10. One of my friends who had started with me from the other school literally broke out in hives and had to stay home frequently because of that teacher. Fortunately, the following years brought me many great teachers. But ugh. Some memories are visceral.
Stunning, Elissa. A perfect essay in every way.
Wise words about memory and how social media impacts it. . .that also hits home because I had a fourth grade teacher like this--not in Forest Hills but in upstate New York who had this very effect on me--and others, I think, but me in particular--we were not a good match and she was not the teacher I needed. So many feelings in my life I can trace back to this fourth grade year. As a writer and college teacher now, I think my whole life in teaching was shaped in opposition to her practices. Strangely my mother, who was later a colleague of hers, rarely wastes an opportunity to mention that she believes I achieved what I did to spite her, as if the treatment she doled out was beneficial somehow. But that's not the kind of person I am--I rarely if ever do anything out of spite. I am more than satisfied with where my life but it certainly would have been different--perhaps better, if I had not had to suffer a shaming, borderline abusive teacher. . .I am also remembering when an elementary school friend posted a first grade picture and then, "does anyone remember how Mrs. XXX used to take us into the bathroom for a spanking when we were in trouble." That treatment I did escape. All of which is to say, how this post resonates, so deeply. I think of those booklets we kept to hold our class photos, our report cards, what we wanted to be when we grew up. Mine was titled, "School Memories." School memories, indeed.
Elissa…. WOW! I am always always always in awe of your words. I read each one, and think my lord what a writer, what a human, what a heart. I long to write like you. Your language. Your story. Breath-taking. XO
Such a fascinating read, thank you. I write a book about my father and me and one publisher who read it asked - exactly as you write about - how can you remember such detail. I’ve no idea, but it feels true, it smells true, so to me it happened just like that, in all that detail
Such an interesting meditation on the way memoirists use memory. I think this is the fascinating aspect of writing about life events. When I wrote my memoir, I opened with a chapter written in my two-year-old voice about my sister's funeral, and, although some will question my memory, I carried a picture of the day across my lifetime. That picture--how the day looked to me as a child is what I wrote. I could have written the chapter from the pov of myself-sixty years later, but I wanted to experiment with memory. I hope it resonates with readers.
A wonderful piece...making me reflect
here's to growing up in the 70s on the East Coast; this writing sent me into a long pause, laying on the floor, recalling it all. the mean teachers, the wonderful ones, the miracle of getting an education at all, the wondering if that's even the way forward for the future. just wow. so many questions. thank you for this.
Tremendous as always.
Oh yes. Thank you.
Your words about having a bad teacher resonate with me SO much! I had the exact same experience in Australia - even your class photo looks pretty much the same as mine do from that time!
My grade three teacher was an absolute nightmare. She was old and horrible, I don't think I ever saw her smile. She left the classroom once and told us not to leave the room OR ELSE. Of course, as soon as she left I started feeling ill, the kid sitting next to me said I should go to the bathroom, but the teacher had told us to stay put, hadn't she? So I bottled it and bottled it, and then just as the teacher waltzed back into the room, I vomited all over the kid, and the teacher screamed at me for not going to the bathroom!!
In grade seven, just before High School, we changed classes for maths, and my fear, loathing, and anxiety around maths was born. This teacher was the devil incarnate, I tell you. She'd rattle sums off so quickly, you hardly had time to add them up and write the answer down before she moved onto the next sum. Then, I had to go and sprain my right wrist, didn't I? So I'm there trying to write with my left hand, which is soooo much slower than my right, while she's calling out these sums like a machine gun.
Then - the humiliation. Who's got ten out of ten? Hands go up. Nine out of ten? Hands go up. Eight out of ten, etc. I got three out of ten, because I just couldn't write fast enough, and when I slowly raised my hand to admit to my failure, she screamed at me and asked me why I'd done so badly. When I lifted my bandaged hand and opened my mouth to speak, she screamed at me that it was just an excuse and I needed to do better.
Any wonder then, that I HATED maths? I hated it with a passion.
Until I got to Chef School, and had to learn food costing and percentages, and was literally pooping my pants because I'm so bad at maths. The chef lecturer sat down with me and explained the theory and it was a literal mic drop. Oh! Is that all it is?
98% Distinction - in maths!
Good teachers are like gold, but it seems there weren't very many of them in the seventies and early eighties!
Thanks so much for this essay - it's nice to know we didn't suffer alone!
Thank you for this. Unsettling yet comforting.
Very thoughtful - and so useful to read. Thank you.
Beautiful essay. I love her writing. It brought back memories of two man junior high school french teachers, although they were not as vicious as your teacher.
Our relationship with our past is something of never-ending fascination - and a goldmine for writers.
An amazing piece of writing. The memories it invokes just reading it is because we're of a similar age. It doesn't matter that I grew up on the other side of the continent. Memories evoked and remembered in fondness are few and far between; sometimes, life throws you a curve ball and all the trauma and nightmares you missed in childhood, come visit you when you're older.
Such a powerful essay, Elissa. You always ask the hard and thought-provoking questions, and I am grateful for that stimulation to my brain! I, too, had a horrible fourth grade teacher. I went to all-girls school (for nine years!), but fourth grade was my first, transitioning from a lovely, happy co-ed primary school. It was such a shock. Among other things, we had a horrible cafeteria, were not allowed to bring our lunches, and were required to eat everything on our tray (and we had to put the food on the tray in the first place). We used to stuff leftover food in orange peels and milk cartons, but one day Mrs. H caught me. It was a watery egg thing that I simply could not eat without throwing up, but she made me sit in the cafeteria while the rest of the class went back until I could manage to eat it. She also gave us HOURS of homework, to the point where I was going to bed after my parents at the age of 10. One of my friends who had started with me from the other school literally broke out in hives and had to stay home frequently because of that teacher. Fortunately, the following years brought me many great teachers. But ugh. Some memories are visceral.