First Day of School
School begins today for Roanoke students. I’m glad I’m not among them.
When I was a week away from turning six, I started first grade (no kindergarten back in the day) at Huff Lane Elementary School. My mother walked me to school (few mothers drove back in the day) and saw me to the door of Mrs. Willhide’s room. Mama told me she’d wait in the hall. Sure enough, Mama was there to walk me home for lunch, and she was there again to walk me home. I figured there must have been a place in the hall—maybe near the big kid classes upstairs—where mothers waited. I should have gotten suspicious because (1) lunch was always ready when we got home at noon and (2) I never saw any other mothers in the hall. But Mama was always waiting in the hallway where she said she’d be.
As we walked home that first day, I asked Mama how old I had to be before I could quit. She told me sixteen. I decided that’s what I would do. Too bad I had to be bored for another ten years.
Later that day, I was playing on the sidewalk in front of my house when Mrs. Wertz from up the street came by.
“How did you like your first day of school?” she said.
“I hate it,” I said. “I’m going to quit when I’m sixteen.” Although I meant what I said at the time, it turns out I lied. I didn’t quit.
Before the week was out, I learned that Mama lied, too. One day she was running a little late and I caught her walking up the sidewalk.
Anyhow, I didn’t quit. When I turned sixteen, I figured I could hang on for two more years. A year later, I started thinking about college, even though I wasn’t sure what I’d be. I knew I didn’t want to be a teacher—and female career choices in the 1960s were mostly limited to nursing, secretarial work, and teaching. I hated the sight of blood (a condition I’ve since gotten over), so nursing was out. I hated the thought of being trapped behind a desk where I’d have to pound a typewriter (who knew computers would be invented?), so forget secretarial work. The only career left was teaching. Besides, I’d gotten used to being in a classroom.
I went to college and became a teacher.
After college, I taught in York County, then married, moved to South Carolina, and couldn’t get a teaching job my first year in Charleston—so I started grad school. After I received my masters, I was back in one classroom or another—junior high, high school, middle school, and college—and then back into high school (albeit part-time) for another year as a writer-in-residence. Most of those years were in Roanoke.
Fifty-six years after making my vow, I finally did quit.
So don’t look for me in school today. I won’t be there.
Not even in the hall.
When I was a week away from turning six, I started first grade (no kindergarten back in the day) at Huff Lane Elementary School. My mother walked me to school (few mothers drove back in the day) and saw me to the door of Mrs. Willhide’s room. Mama told me she’d wait in the hall. Sure enough, Mama was there to walk me home for lunch, and she was there again to walk me home. I figured there must have been a place in the hall—maybe near the big kid classes upstairs—where mothers waited. I should have gotten suspicious because (1) lunch was always ready when we got home at noon and (2) I never saw any other mothers in the hall. But Mama was always waiting in the hallway where she said she’d be.
As we walked home that first day, I asked Mama how old I had to be before I could quit. She told me sixteen. I decided that’s what I would do. Too bad I had to be bored for another ten years.
Later that day, I was playing on the sidewalk in front of my house when Mrs. Wertz from up the street came by.
“How did you like your first day of school?” she said.
“I hate it,” I said. “I’m going to quit when I’m sixteen.” Although I meant what I said at the time, it turns out I lied. I didn’t quit.
Before the week was out, I learned that Mama lied, too. One day she was running a little late and I caught her walking up the sidewalk.
Anyhow, I didn’t quit. When I turned sixteen, I figured I could hang on for two more years. A year later, I started thinking about college, even though I wasn’t sure what I’d be. I knew I didn’t want to be a teacher—and female career choices in the 1960s were mostly limited to nursing, secretarial work, and teaching. I hated the sight of blood (a condition I’ve since gotten over), so nursing was out. I hated the thought of being trapped behind a desk where I’d have to pound a typewriter (who knew computers would be invented?), so forget secretarial work. The only career left was teaching. Besides, I’d gotten used to being in a classroom.
I went to college and became a teacher.
After college, I taught in York County, then married, moved to South Carolina, and couldn’t get a teaching job my first year in Charleston—so I started grad school. After I received my masters, I was back in one classroom or another—junior high, high school, middle school, and college—and then back into high school (albeit part-time) for another year as a writer-in-residence. Most of those years were in Roanoke.
Fifty-six years after making my vow, I finally did quit.
So don’t look for me in school today. I won’t be there.
Not even in the hall.
~
posted by Becky Mushko | 7:54 AM
4 Comments:
Maybe not, but you're still a great teacher and mentor. And that, Miss Becky, you'll never be rid of!
What a wonderful post! I'm sure many students benefited from your decision.
I agree with Amy...
You can take the teacher out of the classroom, but, she is still a teacher, classroom or not!
I love school. But now they're starting them even earlier than kindergarten. I think it's too much. And all the homework. Kids nowadays get rushed to grow up and don't have time to be creative and use their imagination. Forget doing chores with the homework...
www.GreenerPastures--ACityGirlGoesCountry.blogspot.com
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