power shift

First grade was the first time in my life I felt understood. I loved everything about school. The snacks, the smell of mimeographed worksheets, learning how to read and write, the playground, and most of all, I loved my teacher Mrs. King. She was the first adult I had ever met who loved me back.

As the school year drew to a close and I prepared for second grade, I overheard my parents talking in the den. “I can’t stand the other second-grade teachers,” my mother growled. Even at seven, I knew she was ramping toward a full-on tirade. She happened to be a second-grade teacher at the same school I attended, though I managed to avoid her during my year of freedom in Mrs. King’s classroom. I flattened myself against the wall and continued listening at the door. “I mean it. None of them is any good. I’m not going to have it, I’m just not going to have it. That child isn’t going to learn a thing. That principal is the sorriest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stand that school. I’ve never seen such a bunch of…”

“Oh for God’s sake, what do you want?” As usual, my father was exasperated.

“I’m going to put her in my classroom next year,” my mother replied. 

Anxiety turned my blood to ice. My mother couldn’t do that could she? I knew she could and she would. She must have found out how happy I was. Hated at home, she was going to see to it that I was hated at school as well.

Second grade passed in a blur. There was nowhere to turn for help. My mother perched herself upon a wooden teacher throne. . . the very essence of raw power. Not only could she beat me at home, now, she could beat me all day long at school. Those were the days when kids were still spanked, so the administration did nothing. After all, she was my mother. She could do whatever she wanted. Besides, the principal had no idea what was going on in that classroom. My mother took the opportunity to focus special attention on me and my father backed up everything she did. 

Worksheets became indecipherable, confusing symbols. I grew more stupid by the day. I did bad work, I had bad handwriting, I couldn’t behave, I was wicked, dumb and lazy. In fact, I was the worst kid in the classroom. I was trash. Worse than trash. I did not deserve to live. All the terrible things my mother had done to me during the years I was under her thumb at home began to happen all day long at school. Now, she had an audience of eighteen other children to witness my shame. I lay my head on my desk in defeat. I could not win. No matter what I did. My mother was always going to be on top. 

The story of failure spun by my parents that long and terrible year of second grade followed me through the nightmare of elementary school, the disaster of middle school, the despair of high school and every decade after that, until one day, nearly fifty years later and long after Mrs. King had died, I stumbled upon a precious surprise.

While preparing for a cross country move, I noticed a forgotten old box stuffed in the back of the garage. As I sifted through the contents, I stumbled upon a yellowed piece of card stock covered in beautifully hand-written script. It was my report card from Mrs. King’s first grade. My hands shook as I picked it up. Did I dare read the detailed commentary? Mrs. King had written it before I could read cursive. I had no idea what it said, but I was sure it would echo my mother and father’s opinion of me. “Rebekah is disobedient and can’t keep her mouth shut. When I think of Rebekah, I think of trash. She is the worst pupil in the school. She is so stupid, her work is one gigantic, indecipherable mess. The situation is hopeless. She is a complete and total failure.”

I opened the card. Mrs. King’s swirling hand-writing leapt from the page. “Rebekah’s progress has been very good. For one so young, I marvel at her! She is always interested in whatever we are doing. Rebekah has a nice attitude, a good disposition and is always happy. She gets along with everyone. She is very capable, loving and has above average ability and tries hard to do her best.” 

I sat on the floor in shock. Mrs. King’s glowing review continued from top to bottom of every page. She even kept writing when there wasn’t any more space, squeezing her beautiful cursive to fit. Here was the person I loved most serving as an eyewitness to the most distressing years of my life. Her testimony was the complete opposite of what my abusive parents had beat into me. 

A power shift occurred. The opinion of myself, I had carried for so long and so deep, was nothing more than a made-up lie told by cowards. Don’t believe gaslighters and liars, even if they are your own mother and father. Embrace the power shift. You’ve waited long enough.