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Second grade was not a stellar year for me.
Academically, I was fine, but it was the first time in my memory that a teacher did not like me – a rare occurrence, considering I’m an over-achiever and eager to learn. Most teachers love having a student like me: anxious to help, anxious to please, and anxious to get an “A.”
But, Mrs. Anderson only saw that I was anxious. My anxiety got on her very last nerve.
Our relationship was sabotaged from the start. Mrs. Anderson began as a substitute teacher for the young, pretty, and much beloved Mrs. Herring, who took maternity leave after only a month of teaching. Her timing couldn’t have been worse. Our little private school was suddenly bursting at the seams. Second grade was relegated to the chapel. Mrs. Anderson was expected to teach second graders wiggling in pews, and do so without a chalkboard. Knowing this was not an ideal situation, administration finally moved our class to a cold, rickety trailer the school reluctantly rented until our new building was completed.
But to be honest, I admit that there was more to Mrs. Anderson’s dislike of me than my nervous nature or her classroom challenges.
She disliked my exuberance – which is a nice way of saying that I talked way too much and way too loudly. (Thus the name of this blog.)
And then there was the time I nearly caught a boy’s hair on fire in class.
First, let me say, I was not at fault here. The tiny trailer where we recently moved was dangerously crowded with twenty students, a teacher, and a thousand mimeographed worksheets. Further, the Fall art project chosen for our little hands involved lit candles and crayons.
Aside: Back in the 1970’s, teachers trusted seven-year-olds with open flames in a cramped classroom trailer. There are good reasons they do not trust them today.
As I was melting my crayon with my candle and dripping it on the paper, I noticed the flame frizzling the hair of Roland Frazier who sat in front of me. I tried to get Mrs. Anderson’s attention while she directed another student. Roland’s hair began to smoke and smell, but I was taught to wait patiently until my raised hand was answered. So I did. Then she looked up, finally giving her attention to the anxious child pointing to the smoking, frizzling hair of the boy in front of her. Until that moment, I didn’t know Mrs. Anderson could be anxious, too.
But in the end, I’d have to say that Mrs. Anderson’s feelings against me were probably a result of the puking.
A new phenomenon occurred during my second grade year: a simple bus ride to and from school suddenly made me violently ill, each and every morning. At the time we didn’t know my septum was so horribly deviated that nothing drained properly from my sinuses – until I got on the bus. And, back in those days, no one knew that I was gluten intolerant, let alone what that even meant. After a big bowl of cereal with milk, my trip on the bus ended with my breakfast either running up and down the floorboards or in the lap of the unfortunate soul who sat by me. A few times, I forced myself to make it through the bus ride, only to lose it on the way to class. And once, I made it all the way to the chapel before tossing my Fruit-Loops. Mrs. Anderson called my parents to let them know I initiated the brand new carpet. Perhaps that’s why we were sent to the trailer.
Needless to say, I wasn’t very popular with anyone – especially Mrs. Anderson.
Luckily, by the time spring arrived, things were looking up for me and Mrs. Anderson. Thanks to decongestants, I had some control over my stomach, and just in case I didn’t keep everything down, I carried a bag with me to school every morning. Humiliating, but effective. Mrs. Anderson got her new classroom in the new building with desks and chalk and lots of room for anxious children like me. Dear Mrs. Herring even visited us to show off her new baby. All was finally turning around….
But we didn’t count on the spiders.
Any time a new building is carved out of a wooded area, the former inhabitants try to return. Animals like bunnies and birds, have a more difficult time of it because they can’t get into the building unless there is an open door or window. But small creatures, like mice, insects, and other creepies, crawl through any crevice imaginable to find their home again. And in spring, they are all reproducing.
There were spiders everywhere: dangling from the doors, jumping out of corners, and crawling across blackboards. From my previous blog, you’ll remember that I am petrified of spiders, as in ‘blind panic attack’ petrified. ‘Anxious’ didn’t adequately describe my hours in the new classroom. ‘Highly strung with my feet off the floor at all times’ was more accurate.
Mrs. Anderson divided our class into reading groups according to our level of reading. Carl, Sharon Thomas, and I were doing fairly well in reading, which is why our paths crossed that day. Carl sat across from me in our reading group. I remember him because he cut his own bangs one day in second grade, and they never looked the same again. I was very small for my age, so I sat against the wall, with the blackboard above me. Sharon Thomas sat to my right, and Mrs. Anderson sat to Sharon’s right. It was a circle. I was the only one with my back to the board.
Deeply in our primer, I looked up to see Carl’s finger pointing above my head. Little eyes in the circle followed Carl’s finger up, then stared. No one was reading except Mrs. Anderson. The students were fixed, fascinated with what was happening just inches above me. Excitedly, I tilted my face to the ceiling so I could see too.
Straight up, directly above my head, hovering over my face, was the largest spider I had seen in my seven years. It dropped, bit-by-bit, closer and closer to my gaping mouth.
The shriek that erupted from my throat was only audible after I leapt from my chair. Students in neighboring buildings heard it much too late to stop the chain of events begun by a little boy with crooked bangs. The force with which I shot out of my seat jettisoned Sharon Thomas up, over, and into poor, unsuspecting, unappreciated Mrs. Anderson.
Mrs. Anderson spent the next week on crutches. She limped for a couple more, but she finished the year on her feet. I found new seating in the back of the classroom. Even so, I continued to receive high marks in my studies. Mrs. Herring came back the following year to teach the new second grade class while I progressed to third. But not Mrs. Anderson. She never returned – not to second grade or any other grade at our school.
Folks say that spiders don’t hurt people unless people are particularly intrusive and spiders are particularly poisonous. This is “the wool that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you to the truth.” Spiders are smart, crafty, and most of all, envious of our place in this world. Why else do they string their webs from tree to tree, but to catch us before we’ve had our coffee?
To this day, I believe that spider dangling above my head in my second grade reading circle planned to enshroud my entire reading group into its cocoon of death. I had the gift of discernment. I knew an eight-legged threat lived amongst us. I was the only thing standing between my doe-like reading group and the monster dangling from its web. So I did what came natural – I used my substantial voice and small frame to clear a path for all to escape the impending doom.
My only regret is that poor Mrs. Anderson never knew that tiny, anxious girl who nearly immolated a student, who threw up every day of October – that exuberant little hero saved her life one day in reading group.
Mrs. Anderson, wherever you are: You are welcome.
[…] navigation ← Spidertales #1: Little Miss Muffet Spidertales #2: Educating Terry Posted on October 13, 2012 by Terry Let me say […]
[…] turning around, I flashed back to the second grade. I knew what dangled just above my head. But this time I was so gripped in terror that I […]
How fun! That was a few years before I joined you in Mrs. Knust’s fifth grade, but I can still picture little Terry, whose anxious exuberance only made me like her more. Thanks for the memory of that little school.