When I was in third grade my class was sent temporarily to a school across the street from the one we were supposed to attend. I don't remember why or maybe we were never told but I think our regular school was having some remodeling done.
This new school was actually pretty nice. It had a large room in the center surrounded by the classrooms. The large room was used for a variety of things, but I remember it mostly as a place to cross to get from one room to another. I don't remember my teacher and I've forgotten most of what I did during that time. I guess it was uneventful except for a couple of things.
We did a lot of crafts in that class, always a good way to give teachers a rest. Apparently, my teacher was able to use the mimeograph machine because we usually had pictures to cut out as part of our work. One day we were making something which involved cutting out another picture. Before I knew it my teacher was standing over me and telling me that I was doing a terrible job with my scissors and I should be more careful. Then she used my work as an example of how we should not be scissoring. I don't think I had ever heard that word before but I certainly have never forgotten it. I was embarrassed and also confused because I hadn't understood that my work was supposed to be perfect. I quickly learned that lesson.
Another day when we were working on a craft project, my teacher started harassing another student because he didn't know how to braid. This time she singled me out as the student who did the best braiding, and told me to show my classmate the correct way to braid. It never seemed to occur to her that most little girls know how to braid because they braid their own hair, and most little boys don't.
One other thing that happened to me in third grade was that I had my tonsils out. But that had nothing to do with the teacher.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Perils of Belonging to a Religious Community
I grew up in a church that focused on a "born-again" version of christianity. Everyone was expected to "accept Jesus as their savior" at some time in their lives...the sooner, the better. This was important not only to save your soul but also for you to become a voting member of the church. Which reason was more important I could not always tell.
My mother was the religious leader in our family. This would have been strange ordinarily because she had had nothing to do with Jesus and becoming saved until she met and married her first husband. In other words, she was newly saved and very devout. I don't know anything about her first husband's beliefs but I imagine, from what my mother told me about him, that he mostly put his needs before those of Jesus. On the other hand, her mother-in-law was a very strict godly woman who demanded, because she believed that her christian beliefs were the only true christian beliefs, that everyone had to follow her teachings in order to be saved and have eternal life. Unfortunately, even though my mother was nothing like her mother-in-law, she was indoctrinated with those same beliefs, and brought her children up to believe the same way.
I can understand how my mother was susceptible to these teachings. Her husband joined the Army Air Force soon after they were married, leaving his wife pregnant and alone with his family. She wasn't wanted as a wife for their son, and wasn't completely accepted as the right mother for their grandchildren especially after their son was dead and she remarried. She was so afraid of displeasing them that she followed her mother-in-law's dictates in every way. Her mother-in-law forbade my father's adoption of her grandchildren, which he wanted to do, because they would no longer have the family name. This meant that my older brother and sister went through school with a different last name then the rest of us in a time when all the children in a family were supposed to have the same surname. I remember friends and teachers saying to me that they never knew that person was my brother or sister, and why do they have a different last name? This hurt me because I never remembered that we had different fathers until someone made me remember. In my own mind, my older sister and brother were no different from my younger sisters and brother.
My mother must have been miserable most of the time during those years with her in-laws. Her one savior was her husband's grandmother who accepted my mother unquestioningly and loved her as as her own. It's possible my mother accepted her husband's family religion out of love for his grandmother, and I hope that was the reason. Her mother-in-law certainly gave her no love, but she did give her plenty of emotional abuse. In the days when I believed in god, I always felt that the death of her first husband was god's way of saving my mother from a terrible life. If her husband had survived the war and come home, my mother would have had nothing but heartache. She admitted this herself to me several times, and from what she told me of her life when she was with him, I know she was right. She loved him but he was selfish and spoiled and she never experienced the same kind of love from him.
After years of believing that I was more sure than others of receiving eternal life, even though I never could accept it completely, I finally came to my senses. I have felt such relief ever since that I no longer had to be afraid of that terrible religion's teachings. It's such a relief to know that I am in charge and answerable only to myself whenever I do something to cause me joy or pain. There is no angry or judgemental god up there watching over me, and in this I rejoice.
My mother was the religious leader in our family. This would have been strange ordinarily because she had had nothing to do with Jesus and becoming saved until she met and married her first husband. In other words, she was newly saved and very devout. I don't know anything about her first husband's beliefs but I imagine, from what my mother told me about him, that he mostly put his needs before those of Jesus. On the other hand, her mother-in-law was a very strict godly woman who demanded, because she believed that her christian beliefs were the only true christian beliefs, that everyone had to follow her teachings in order to be saved and have eternal life. Unfortunately, even though my mother was nothing like her mother-in-law, she was indoctrinated with those same beliefs, and brought her children up to believe the same way.
I can understand how my mother was susceptible to these teachings. Her husband joined the Army Air Force soon after they were married, leaving his wife pregnant and alone with his family. She wasn't wanted as a wife for their son, and wasn't completely accepted as the right mother for their grandchildren especially after their son was dead and she remarried. She was so afraid of displeasing them that she followed her mother-in-law's dictates in every way. Her mother-in-law forbade my father's adoption of her grandchildren, which he wanted to do, because they would no longer have the family name. This meant that my older brother and sister went through school with a different last name then the rest of us in a time when all the children in a family were supposed to have the same surname. I remember friends and teachers saying to me that they never knew that person was my brother or sister, and why do they have a different last name? This hurt me because I never remembered that we had different fathers until someone made me remember. In my own mind, my older sister and brother were no different from my younger sisters and brother.
My mother must have been miserable most of the time during those years with her in-laws. Her one savior was her husband's grandmother who accepted my mother unquestioningly and loved her as as her own. It's possible my mother accepted her husband's family religion out of love for his grandmother, and I hope that was the reason. Her mother-in-law certainly gave her no love, but she did give her plenty of emotional abuse. In the days when I believed in god, I always felt that the death of her first husband was god's way of saving my mother from a terrible life. If her husband had survived the war and come home, my mother would have had nothing but heartache. She admitted this herself to me several times, and from what she told me of her life when she was with him, I know she was right. She loved him but he was selfish and spoiled and she never experienced the same kind of love from him.
After years of believing that I was more sure than others of receiving eternal life, even though I never could accept it completely, I finally came to my senses. I have felt such relief ever since that I no longer had to be afraid of that terrible religion's teachings. It's such a relief to know that I am in charge and answerable only to myself whenever I do something to cause me joy or pain. There is no angry or judgemental god up there watching over me, and in this I rejoice.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Table with Meaning
I have a table given to me by my mother after I got married. It had been in our home since I was young, and was given to her by a neighbor who told my mother that the table had been built by her grandfather. She was of Scandinavian descent, I think Swedish, and her grandfather had used ancestral designs to create this table.
My mother was a housewife most of her married life and seemed happy in that role. When I was in junior high, our neighbor, who was a single mother, asked my mother if she would mind watching her son after school until she got home from work. She didn't have much money to spare, and I don't think my mother asked for any. I'm sure she offered to babysit for free since she was always home waiting for all of us. Anyway, the arrangement was made and we had another little boy around the house for a couple of hours after school each day.
I don't remember much about him; my younger brother must have kept him busy. But, I do remember the Christmas strudel that his mother baked for us every Christmas for years until they moved away. It was the best strudel I've ever tasted. Then one year she asked my mother to come over and choose something from her furniture since they were moving and couldn't take everything with them. My mother tried to refuse but was eventually persuaded that her friend really wanted her to do this. She chose the table.
When I got older, I wondered why this neighbor would have given my mother something that must have been important to her. I now realize that she wanted to thank my mother for helping her out when she had no where else to turn.
My mother was a housewife most of her married life and seemed happy in that role. When I was in junior high, our neighbor, who was a single mother, asked my mother if she would mind watching her son after school until she got home from work. She didn't have much money to spare, and I don't think my mother asked for any. I'm sure she offered to babysit for free since she was always home waiting for all of us. Anyway, the arrangement was made and we had another little boy around the house for a couple of hours after school each day.
I don't remember much about him; my younger brother must have kept him busy. But, I do remember the Christmas strudel that his mother baked for us every Christmas for years until they moved away. It was the best strudel I've ever tasted. Then one year she asked my mother to come over and choose something from her furniture since they were moving and couldn't take everything with them. My mother tried to refuse but was eventually persuaded that her friend really wanted her to do this. She chose the table.
When I got older, I wondered why this neighbor would have given my mother something that must have been important to her. I now realize that she wanted to thank my mother for helping her out when she had no where else to turn.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Playground
Our yard was a playground for the neighborhood, summer and winter. Summer was filled with fun, but winter was the most exciting. We lived on a hill overlooking the mouth of a river which could only be glimpsed from an upstairs window during the winter. The trees on the downslope within about twenty feet of the hilltop behind our house had been cut down years before. When we moved there, this area was overgrown with shrubbery and a few small trees that my father didn't try to control, except for one area. This was a narrow path created by water from our yard running downhill to a brook which eventually made its way to the river. We used this runoff area as access to the wonders of the woods which we could explore and pretend in to our hearts' content.
In the winter this path furnished the best sliding ever. Not only was it steep, but it also curved around a large tree about a third of the way down before it reached the brook at the bottom. After a good snowstorm, we first had to take our pieces of cardboard and flying saucers and pack down the snow. Once that was done, we were ready to get our sleds and flying saucers and go.. Each trip down the hill made the path icier and faster. The trick was to go as fast as we could to the bottom without crashing into the tree. At the bottom was the brook. If it was cold enough, the brook would freeze over and our route would be extended several icy feet; otherwise, we'd end up in a soggy mess. We spent hours sliding down and climbing up our special hill until we could barely move. Only then did we feel our day was complete and we could go inside and get warm.
In the winter this path furnished the best sliding ever. Not only was it steep, but it also curved around a large tree about a third of the way down before it reached the brook at the bottom. After a good snowstorm, we first had to take our pieces of cardboard and flying saucers and pack down the snow. Once that was done, we were ready to get our sleds and flying saucers and go.. Each trip down the hill made the path icier and faster. The trick was to go as fast as we could to the bottom without crashing into the tree. At the bottom was the brook. If it was cold enough, the brook would freeze over and our route would be extended several icy feet; otherwise, we'd end up in a soggy mess. We spent hours sliding down and climbing up our special hill until we could barely move. Only then did we feel our day was complete and we could go inside and get warm.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Volunteering
At some time during my school years, probably in junior high, I developed a stammer. I think it had to do with moving from my safe elementary school to a scary older-kids' school. I don't remember when it started, just that my teachers in junior high became concerned, spoke to me about it, and then spoke to my parents. I was taken to a speech therapist who diagnosed it as a slight or temporary problem because I had periods of fluency. And, that was that. No one mentioned it again until high school when my French teacher noticed I had a problem answering questions. He asked me about it and I gave him a short explanation which resulted in him not calling on me in class anymore.
I lived with this speech problem for years and learned to manage it by not speaking in situations where I knew I would stammer. This meant that I didn't speak when I was nervous or excited. If I had to speak, I coped by beginning my sentences with words that usually didn't bother me. Otherwise, I tried my best to speak without the stammering being obvious. I should explain that what happened to me was the inability to say anything at all. I would open my mouth and the sound wouldn't come out, almost as if I were gagging on the word. This happened mainly with vowels, but sometimes with other words if I was very agitated. It bothered me so much that I hesitated about giving my daughter the middle name she has because it begins with a vowel. Even now I sometimes have trouble saying her middle name.
I have spent my adult life until just a few years ago having to cope with a "speech problem." This resulted in my hardly ever volunteering to speak whenever I felt nervous. Over the last ten or fifteen years the problem has gradually gone away, and I very seldom think about it. When I do think about it, such as now, I wonder if it all started because I was a scared little girl.
I lived with this speech problem for years and learned to manage it by not speaking in situations where I knew I would stammer. This meant that I didn't speak when I was nervous or excited. If I had to speak, I coped by beginning my sentences with words that usually didn't bother me. Otherwise, I tried my best to speak without the stammering being obvious. I should explain that what happened to me was the inability to say anything at all. I would open my mouth and the sound wouldn't come out, almost as if I were gagging on the word. This happened mainly with vowels, but sometimes with other words if I was very agitated. It bothered me so much that I hesitated about giving my daughter the middle name she has because it begins with a vowel. Even now I sometimes have trouble saying her middle name.
I have spent my adult life until just a few years ago having to cope with a "speech problem." This resulted in my hardly ever volunteering to speak whenever I felt nervous. Over the last ten or fifteen years the problem has gradually gone away, and I very seldom think about it. When I do think about it, such as now, I wonder if it all started because I was a scared little girl.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Triplets
When we were little, my two younger sisters and I spent most of our time together. We shared a bedroom, and in the early years we even shared a bed. It was perfect for those cold winter nights in an unheated bedroom. Our mother made some of our clothes, and quite often the outfits were the same or very similar. People at our church thought we were triplets because we looked so much alike, and when our mother made those matching outfits, they were sure of it. There were already one set of triplets in our church, and two sets of twins. They didn't need us to be triplets, too, and soon found out we weren't.
Every year our mother would order toys for us from the Sears catalog. She didn't drive, and Sears would let her stay home, charge what she bought and take her time paying it back. She often joked when we were older and knew the truth about Santa that she would get her bill paid off just in time for the next Christmas season. Each year after Christmas, the three of us were given the old catalogs to play with and the first thing we did was start choosing models to cut out for paper dolls. These were our first paper dolls and we had the best time matching clothes to people, and people to people to make families. Of course, after noticing what we were doing, our mother decided to find us "real" paper dolls for Christmas. We were happy with them at first, but it didn't take long for them to bore us more quickly than our home-made ones did.
Later on, our mother discovered Christmas Clubs and she no longer had to rely on Sears. Most years we received identical toys for Christmas. One year she and our father took us to a local store that carried toys and let us tell them which toys we liked. That Christmas my sisters and I received baby dolls. I don't remember if they had picked them out, too, but I had, and I thought it was the most wonderful present ever.
Another year my father ordered sleds for us for Christmas, but a neighbor kid whose father worked at the store told us and spoiled the surprise. It didn't bother us as much as it did our father.
None of us minded being dressed alike and receiving the same or similar toys, at least I don't remember anyone complaining. We played together anyway, and if people mixed us up, we didn't care. It wasn't until we were older, and our teachers kept calling us by a sister's name in class, that we started caring, and insisting on our own identities.
Every year our mother would order toys for us from the Sears catalog. She didn't drive, and Sears would let her stay home, charge what she bought and take her time paying it back. She often joked when we were older and knew the truth about Santa that she would get her bill paid off just in time for the next Christmas season. Each year after Christmas, the three of us were given the old catalogs to play with and the first thing we did was start choosing models to cut out for paper dolls. These were our first paper dolls and we had the best time matching clothes to people, and people to people to make families. Of course, after noticing what we were doing, our mother decided to find us "real" paper dolls for Christmas. We were happy with them at first, but it didn't take long for them to bore us more quickly than our home-made ones did.
Later on, our mother discovered Christmas Clubs and she no longer had to rely on Sears. Most years we received identical toys for Christmas. One year she and our father took us to a local store that carried toys and let us tell them which toys we liked. That Christmas my sisters and I received baby dolls. I don't remember if they had picked them out, too, but I had, and I thought it was the most wonderful present ever.
Another year my father ordered sleds for us for Christmas, but a neighbor kid whose father worked at the store told us and spoiled the surprise. It didn't bother us as much as it did our father.
None of us minded being dressed alike and receiving the same or similar toys, at least I don't remember anyone complaining. We played together anyway, and if people mixed us up, we didn't care. It wasn't until we were older, and our teachers kept calling us by a sister's name in class, that we started caring, and insisting on our own identities.
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