By the time the 4th grade rolled around at Bryant Elementary in 1959, I had turned into an insecure, paranoid whack-o. I was afraid of everything...this included my father, who I thought might kill me in my sleep; burglars who would enter our simple, non-assuming home and kill me in my sleep; school yard bullies, who would kill me while I was wide awake; and lightening, which I heard could come right down the antenna wire and blow you up while you watched TV.
I had so much on my mind I was constantly in a state of distraction, knowing there were a number of factors that could lead to my instant destruction. I was an 8 year old Woody Allen character.
I started the 4th grade with a newly graduated, extremely high strung teacher who found me hopeless. She did not hesitate to dress me down in front of the class over my many shortcomings and preoccupations. We turned into mortal enemies.
The word on the street from the wagging tongues was we were to receive a temporary teacher, because my enemy teacher was with child and hurriedly married. I heard parents “tsk-tsking” and didn’t really understand. I did hear she would be expecting a baby VERY SHORTLY after her marriage and I asked (in front of the class) if this was true. She turned red and took me to the principal’s office. As I recall, he was a kindly man named Mr. Jennings, who in retrospect was attempting to keep this all smoothed over and avoid a problem for anyone. As she was complaining about my audacity to bring up such a matter, Mr. Jennings pointed out I was only 8, I was asking a legitimate question, and it was true. What did she want him to do? 
She wept, while shaking in front of me, calmed down and took me back to class. After class, she had me stay behind and with a blotchy face, red eyes and sniffles told me to never bring this up again. She grabbed the cheeks of my face and twisted them, while pulling me close to her angry, bulging eyes. She hissed if I ever wanted to graduate from the 4th grade I had better walk a straight line, keep my mouth shut, and do as I was told. If not, I would get to see her again next year for a re-do of the 4th grade and we would go through this again. I asked how she could continue to teach? Who was going to look after her baby? She told me to shut up and get out. She DID put the fear of God into me.
I decided I had to get out of there and go to a different school. I told my mother and she said to forget it. This is the school to which I was assigned, because it was the nearest to our home. When I explained my teacher hated me, mother said that was not true, I was being dramatic and needed to do a better job getting along with her. There was nothing else to be done.
I felt if I remained in my current class I would undoubtably make an error and be killed or even worse, failed…doomed to repeat the 4th grade with this Wicked Witch of the West who loathed me. My mother insisted there was no alternative. However…it occurred to me this is my assigned school for WHITE kids. In segregated Sherman, Texas of the 1950’s, there was an elementary school for the black children. Every African American child in town went to this school, regardless of where they lived. I knew the location and it was not too far from our home. I could attend school there!
I thought it best to smooth things over with the Bryant Elementary administration before I sprang it on my mother. I went to the office and obtained a form for school transfer, filled it out and checked the square that said I was “Colored.” I realized I would need my parents’ signature and could not successfully forge mother’s name. Perhaps if my enemy teacher signed off, mom would go along.
Assuming she would be delighted to be rid of me, I took the form to my 4th grade teacher for her signature and told her I was leaving. She read it over, shook her head and pointed out I was not really “Colored.” I said I was going to claim to be “Colored”, I had to get away from her and this was my only option. She looked at me for a long moment, her face screwed up, turned red and she
He asked me not to go to the school for African American children. He said he would miss me and he felt confident whatever difficulty my instructor and I had, we could work it out. Let’s give this another chance, talk with your teacher on a regular basis and be her friend. She has a lot on her mind, as you do Bucky. He said he would hold onto my transfer form and we would not discuss it with my parents…who would likely be surprised to learn they were African American.
I agreed and my 4th grade teacher and I maintained an uneasy truce…both wary of one another, but civil and got through the year. The baby was born and she abandoned teaching, claiming it was due in part to her time with me.
As I think back upon the incident, I realize my parents would have stopped me, but it “might” have been an adventure to show up at the black elementary school as the only white kid. I might have been harassed or could have possibly been elected “Most Unique”, been the white character in school plays or at least voted “Lightest Complexion” for a 4th grade African American student.
Comments
Post a Comment