In which I find my true home: the stage

For the next two weeks, I'm participating in the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge. See the end of this post for details!

In fifth grade, we return to Good Hair. Which is all that matters, after all.

Look how happy I am! How confident! Except for the funky teeth situation, I look pretty good--as if I might just avoid those weird-looking teen years after all. I mean, how wrong can THIS go?

(Spoiler: very, very wrong.)

My fifth grade teacher was Mr. Townsend (I KNOW, I know, so many male teachers! It wasn't my doing, I swear), and he was FINE. After Mr. Klein/Klyne/Himmler, it was a relief to have a teacher who liked me. Honestly I remember very little about his teaching. What I remember from fifth grade is limited to this: my classmate Barbara getting something or other published in Kidsday--which was, OF COURSE, the kids' section of Newsday, the Long Island paper of record-- and feeling sick with envy; Mr. Townsend admonishing us, on a particularly hot day, not to fan ourselves with paper, because the act of fanning would make us even hotter (I thought this was the most insane thing I had ever heard in all my days); and performing a one-woman (one-girl?) one-act play for the entire school, in which I was a witch. (There were other acts, performed by the rest of the class, but for whatever reason I was on my own. Either I was a formidable talent, or my ego was a danger to others.) Mr. Townsend stood right in front of the stage mouthing the lines to me, so anytime I got stuck I would merely pretend to be thoughtful and look down to receive my cue. This is called acting, kids. That's a little trick used in the theater.

Next up: sixth grade. Right before the steep descent into Awkward.

How was your fifth grade year? Did you Work Well with Others?

DonorsChoose.org allows donors to directly fund projects for teachers in struggling schools. Any amount you can donate will make a huge difference for these teachers! To date we've helped fund EIGHT classroom projects. Holy cats, don't stop now! Donate any amount up to $100 and enter the match code FINSLIPPY at checkout, and your donation will be matched. Thank you!

It's all right to cry, unless your teacher is uncomfortable with emotions

For the next two weeks, I'm participating in the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge. See the end of this post for details!

My fourth grade teacher wins for Surliest Teacher Ever. His name was Mr. Klein, but I'm almost sure that's not how it was spelled. I can't recall the correct spelling, and this is killing me. It was Clyne or Klyne or Goebbels. Something like that.

Mr. Klein didn't like me, and I didn't like him. My parents couldn't stand him. Now, though, I can't help but feel a little bad for the guy. Because he had no idea what he was up against.

Well hello, Mr. Klein.

(Could I look any more put out by life? Fine, take my picture. Whatevs. Yeah, I know last year I used a brush on my hair, but that's so third grade. Oh, you like my vest? Pfft. I don't even know where I got this.)

Mr. Klein might have given me a hard time, but I'm pretty sure I tortured him. Because there was one thing he couldn't handle: tears. And tears were my mutant superpower. I could soak an entire dress in my tears in seconds. I was always on the verge of weeping. Every report card I have up until fourth grade refers to my crying and whether or not I had it "under control." In fourth grade, I suspect I didn't bother with this whole "control" issue.

Mr. Klein was always on my case for being disorganized and messy. Are any fourth graders capable of organizing their stuff? For whatever reason, the sight of my messy desk drawer filled him with rage. So much so that one day he actually upended my desk and forced me to get on my hands and knees in front of the entire class and clean it up. This was a major error on his part, however, because not only did his outburst set me off, it caused most of the class to follow suit. Faced with twenty kids crying at once, I'm surprised the guy didn't leap out a window.

Now you. Fourth grade. Spill it. I've been loving all your stories. You all get As in my book!

Return next week for fifth and sixth grade (the magical years), seventh (the most embarrassing school photo there ever was), eighth (no, wait, this one is), and ninth (do I have to show you this picture?).

DonorsChoose.org allows donors to directly fund projects for teachers in struggling schools. Any amount you can donate will make a huge difference for these teachers! To date we've helped fund FIVE classroom projects. Donate any amount up to $100 and enter the match code FINSLIPPY at checkout, and your donation will be matched. Thank you!

I bet that gym teacher couldn't spell "synecdoche" if her life depended on it

For the next two weeks, I'm participating in the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge. See the end of this post for details!

In third grade, I apparently became…soulful. Pensive. "Followed by a moonshadow," if you will.

My teacher was Miss Miranda, and she was above reproach. She was kind, encouraging, and pretty. In my memory, I was taught by Snow White.

Third grade was the year we began having Spelling Bees, and if there's one thing I was good at, it was spelling. I won every freaking Bee. That much I remember.

But what is happening in the class photo? Why was I put in the bottom row, where I towered over my shrimpy classmates? Why am I so spooked? Was I seeing a ghost? Why were the ghosts only visible to me? Were the ghosts responsible for scrawling highlighter all over this photo? Where am I?

I've always remembered myself as a genius student, so looking at my report card for the first time in many years is awfully illuminating. I might have been secretly brilliant, but in third grade I was merely competent. Miss Miranda might as well have scrawled MEH across the whole thing. (Except for Spelling (AND THE BEES!), that is. )

Then again, nothing stands out as especially negative. Nope, nothing at all! Just all the same. Nothing standing out here.

Wait, what's this?

OH YES NOW I REMEMBER. Third grade was the year I met Miss Tobin, My Gym Teacher/Nemesis. Miss Tobin, who taught me what "uncoordinated" meant, and then taught me that I was That Word. Miss Tobin, who regularly pointed out my lack of competency/coordination to the rest of the class, and then berated me for coming up with imaginary illnesses that put me in the sidelines. Miss Tobin, who would regularly ask me why I couldn't be more like Franny, or Jenny, or Allison, or hell anyone else, because I was pretty much the worst she had ever seen!

Look how angrily scrawled those Ns are. I'm picturing Miss Miranda, perched near a window, bluebirds alighting on her, as they did, and she's filling in my grades, maybe singing a little song. That's when Miss Tobin bounds through the door, hurdles all the desks, shoves Miss Miranda off her stool and grabs the report card--suddenly overcome with the knowledge that her previous assessment of "S" wasn't going to send an important message to that Alice Bradley, her EIGHT-YEAR-OLD NEMESIS. Alice needs Ns! AND A U! A U!

I really enjoyed reading about all your second grade teachers. Now it's time for third grade. Keep it up, class!

DonorsChoose.org allows donors to directly fund projects for teachers in struggling schools. Any amount you can donate will make a huge difference for these teachers! To date we've helped fund FOUR classroom projects, which is amazing. Donate any amount up to $100 and enter the match code FINSLIPPY at checkout, and your donation will be matched. Thank you!

I never did learn to play the sitar

For the next two weeks, I'm participating in the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge. See the end of this post for details!

Second grade was the year that began with Obsession, and ended with Neurosis. I was obsessed with, among other things, astronomy, Japanese culture, and sitar music. I…I don't know, either. These were not interests that began in school, but my teacher, Mr. Barry, did try to cultivate at least one of them.

I developed this brilliant idea for a special astronomy project: somehow I was going to create a constellation projector with a refrigerator box. One of my classmates joined me for this project, and Mr. Barry got us a refrigerator box and let us plan out our brilliant scheme in the hallway, just the two of us and… the box. I felt like this went on for weeks but it was probably only a few days. All we did was sit inside the box and giggle. Mr. Barry tried to get us to organize our thoughts, but it turned out we really wanted to giggle. Our special project got scrapped, and I had to join the Regular People in the classroom. I was none too pleased about that, having quickly decided that I was special and required hallway projects.

Behold the arrogance! And the eyebrows!

I was extremely concerned about Mr. Barry. Since I was already shaping up to be something of a nervous mess, this year marks the beginning of my proud tradition of projecting my feelings onto other people. I thought Mr. Barry was under a lot of stress. He seemed really worried all the time, not that I could say how, but I knew it. I saw him pumping gas at the local station, which is when I first learned that teachers are not paid enough. My worry increased.

As for me, my grandmother died after a terrible battle with cancer, my mom (and the rest of my family) was devastated, and I was peeing myself quite a bit because, it turned out, in addition to being too shy to ask to go to the bathroom, I was getting bladder infections--which were caused by a narrow urethra, which ended up requiring surgery. Also my sister was leaving for college and I pretty much cried all the time? But oh, Mr. Barry was the one who needed my help.

In addition to my many woes, I was not getting any better at posing.

Boy, that was a shitty year. Mr. Barry was one of the bright spots in that year. He was the first teacher I had who I remember laughing at my jokes and the stuff I wrote that was trying to be funny. He was an excellent teacher and he had to pump gas. Goddammit.

I don't have a picture of Mr. Barry but in my imagination he resembled John Denver. I still can't watch "Oh, God!" without getting emotional. You'd think I wouldn't have many opportunities to watch "Oh, God!" but you would be WRONG. Or, okay, right.

What do you guys remember about second grade? Please share with the class.

DonorsChoose.org allows donors to directly fund projects for teachers in struggling schools. Any amount you can donate will make a huge difference for these teachers! To date we've already helped fund FOUR classroom projects, which is amazing. Donate any amount up to $100 and enter the match code FINSLIPPY at checkout, and your donation will be matched. Thank you!