"Mommy, can I go back to gan?"
I can't say these words came as a shock. 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 than the
teacher implied. A slightly critical remark hurts as if her
entire being has been accursed.
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 full 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 try 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 too. I haven't read about the Bushmen of Africa,
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
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 ganenet. 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.
"Yes, you can go," I said. "And while you're there, ask
Morah Chavi if there's room for me."
