Schoolhouse Memories

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The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers 1940

High was swell. Everything about it was different from Grammar . She wouldn't have liked it so much if she had had to take a stenographic course like Hazel and Etta had done-but she got special permission and took mechanical shop like a boy. Shop and Algebra and Spanish were grand. English was mighty hard. Her English teacher was Miss Minner. Everybody said Miss Minner had sold her brains to a famous doctor for ten thousand dollars, so that after she was dead he could cut them up and see why she was so smart. On written lessons she cracked such questions as "Name eight famous contemporaries of Doctor Johnson," and "Quote ten lines from 'The Vicar of Wakefield.' " She called on people by the alphabet and kept her grade book open during the lessons. . .

Reprinted with permission from Bantam.

The Book Of Daniel, E.L. Doctorow 1971

The marvelous smell of the classroom on rainy days, with all the raincoats and rubbers. A room on a rainy day, steamy with wet raincoats in the closet and wet rubbers. The windows fogged with steam, the rain dripping down the outside of the windows. The hot lunch program. The hot soup. To each other the teachers spoke Yiddish, which was ridiculous because nine-tenths of all children were Jewish and they understood Yiddish from the mothers and fathers, from their grandfathers. The maps that pulled down like shades. The watercolors of Washington and Lincoln and Coolidge framed in glass high on the walls.

Reprinted with permission from Random House Inc.

A Death In The Family, James Agee 1957

Rufus' house was on the way to for a considerable neighborhood, and within a few minutes after his father had waved for the last time and disappeared, the walks were filled with another exciting thing to look at as the boys and girls who were old enough for came by. At first he was content to watch them through the front window; they were creatures of an all but unimaginable world; he personally knew nobody who was big enough even for kindergarten. Later he felt more kinship with them, more curiosity, great envy, and considerable awe. It did not yet occur to him that he could ever grow up to be one of them, but he began to feel that in any case they were somehow of the same race. He wandered out into the yard, even to the sidewalk, even, at length, to the corner, where he could see them coming from three ways at once. He was fascinated by the way they looked, the boys so powerfully dressed and the girls almost as prettily as if they were going to a party. Nearly all of them walked in two's and three's, and members of these groups often called to others of the groups. You could see how well they all knew each other; any number of people; a whole world. And they all carried books of different colors and thickness, and lunches done up in packages or boxes, and pencils in still other boxes; or carried all these things together in a satchel. He loved the way they carried these things, it seemed to give them wonderful dignity and purpose, to be the mark that set them apart in the privileged world. He particularly admired and envied the way the boys who carried their books in brown canvas straps could swing them, except when they swung them at his head. Then he was at the same time frightened and very much surprised, and the boy who had pretended he meant to hit him, and anyone else who saw, would laugh to see that look of fear and surprise on his face, and he felt puzzled and unhappy because they laughed.

Originally published by Grosset & Dunlap.

To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee 1960

Miss Caroline began the day by reading us a story about cats. The cats had long conversations with one another, they wore cunning little clothes and lived in a warm house beneath a kitchen stove. By the time Mrs. Cat called the drugstore for an order of chocolate malted mice the class was wriggling like a bucketful of catawba worms. Miss Caroline seemed unaware that the ragged, denim-shirted and floursack-skirted first grade, most of whom had chopped cotton and fed hogs from the time they were able to walk, were immune to imaginative literature. Miss Caroline came to the end of the story and said, "Oh, my, wasn't that nice?"

Then she went to the blackboard and printed the alphabet in enormous square capitals, turned to the class and asked, "Does anybody know what these are?"

Everybody did; most of the first grade had failed it last year.

Reprinted with permission from HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou 1969

Unlike the white high , Lafayette County Training distinguished itself by having neither lawn, nor hedges, nor tennis court, nor climbing ivy. Its two buildings (main classrooms, the grade and home economics) were set on a dirt hill with no fence to limit either its boundaries or those of bordering farms. There was a large expanse to the left of the which was used alternately as a baseball diamond or a basketball court. . . .

Over this rocky area relieved by a few shady tall persimmon trees the graduating class walked. . . . Only a small percentage would be continuing on to college-one of the South's A&M (agricultural and mechanical) s, which trained Negro youths to be carpenters, farmers, handymen, masons, maids, cooks and baby nurses. Their future rode heavily on their shoulders, and blinded them to the collective joy that had pervaded the lives of the boys and girls in the grammar graduating class.

Parents who could afford it had ordered new shoes and ready-made clothes for themselves from Sears and Roebuck or Montgomery Ward. They also engaged the best seamstresses to make the floating graduating dresses and to cut down secondhand pants which would be pressed to a military slickness for the important event.

Oh, it was important, all right. Whitefolks would attend the ceremony, and two or three would speak of God and home, and the Southern way of life, and Mrs. Parsons, the principal's wife, would play the graduation march while the lower-grade graduates paraded down the aisles and took their seats below the platform. The high seniors would wait in empty classrooms to make their dramatic entrance.

Reprinted with permission from Random House Inc.

Up The Down Staircase, Bel Kaufman 1964

I am writing this during my free . . . oops! unassigned period, at the end of my first day of teaching. So far, I have taught nothing-but I have learned a great deal. To wit:

We have to punch a time clock and abide by the Rules.

We must make sure our students likewise abide, and that they sign the time sheet whenever they leave or reenter a room.

We have keys but no locks (except in lavatories), blackboards but no chalk, students but no seats, teachers but no time to teach.

The library is closed to the students.

Yet I'm told that Calvin Coolidge is not unique; it's as average as a large metropolitan high can be. There are many s worse than this (the official phrase is "problem-area s on the lower socio-economic levels") and a few better ones. Kids with an aptitude in a trade can go to vocational high s; kids with outstanding talents in math, science, drama, dance, music, or art can attend special high s which require entrance tests or auditions; kids with emotional problems or difficulties in learning are sent to the "600 s." But the great majority, the ordinary kids, find themselves in Calvin Coolidge or its reasonable facsimile. And so do the teachers.

Reprinted with permission from HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

This Side Of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald 1920

So early in September Amory, provided with "six suits summer underwear, six suits winter underwear, one sweater or T shirt, one jersey, one overcoat, winter, etc." set out for New England, the land of s.

There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England dead-large, college-like democracies; St. Mark's, Groton, St. Regis'--recruited from Boston and the Knickerbocker families of New York; St. Paul's, with its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George's, prosperous and well-dressed; Taft and Hotchkiss, which prepared the wealth of the Middle West for social success at Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a hundred others; all milling out their well-set-up, conventional, impressive type, year after year; their mental stimulus the college entrance exams; their vague purpose set forth in a hundred circulars as "To impart a Thorough Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a Christian Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting the problems of his day and generation, and to give a solid foundation in the Arts and Sciences."


Sleeping At The Starlite Motel, Bailey White 1995

I am always saddened, driving through small towns in the United States, to come upon the old house. Sometimes it is a grand brick building with ivy and an avenue of oak trees leading up to its high granite steps and arched doorway. Sometimes it is a stone house with tall windows. In little villages it is often a white clapboard building with a hip roof and a bell tower. But one thing you can be almost sure of: it won't be a anymore.

If the town is sad and poor, the old house will be abandoned, with broken windows, rotting door frames, and graffiti spray-painted on its walls. If the town is lucky and imaginative, the old house will have been transformed into offices and condominiums, or little craft shops reeking of potpourri made from wood shavings soaked in synthetic oil of cinnamon.

In Granville, Vermont (population 309), the old house is downtown, next to the town hall. It's a white clapboard building with green trim and a steep roof. In the high front gable a plaque says 1857. The paint is bright, the picket fence in front is in good shape. And on a spring day in 1991 when I pushed open the house's heavy paneled door and stepped inside, there were no weary office workers in their cubicles separated by imitation wood-grain partition walls, or chatty tourists buying Kountry Krafts and miniature plastic jugs of maple syrup. Instead, in this old one-room house there were actually students-seventeen little girls and boys aged six through eleven, and their teacher, Ms. Roland. They were attentively going about the business of reading and writing and doing arithmetic, just as many of their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had done at Granville in 1857.

Of course, changes have been made. Under the five east windows that look out across the snowy playground to the great red barn of the farm next door, four computers sat on a shelf, and under one of the high windows at the back of the room a reading loft had been constructed. There was a copy machine and a TV set, and two bathrooms in the back. . . .

Reprinted with permission from Perseus.

Peyton Place, Grace Metalious 1956

Perhaps, thought Miss Thornton defensively, the entire evening's performance would be comical to an outsider. Certainly, the scratchiness of the Peyton Place High band attempting to play a

composition as pretentious as "Pomp and Circumstance" had its comical aspects. And Jared Clarke, while he had not actually remarked that the graduates were "standing with reluctant feet" had most certainly implied it. . . .

But Miss Thornton had not been amused. When seventy-two children, among them the forty-odd whom she had taught all year, rose in a body to sing, "Hail, Alma Mater fair, our song to thee we raise," Miss Thornton had been filled with emotion which some might have called "sentimentality" and others, of a younger, more tactless generation, perhaps would label as "corny." Graduation, to Miss Thornton, was a time of sadness and a time of joy, but most of all it was a time of change. On graduation night, the change meant more to Miss Thornton than a simple transition from one to another. She regarded it as the end of an era. Too many of her boys and girls had ceased to be children this night. . . .

It's all too fast, thought Miss Thornton, realizing that she was not thinking a new thought. She seemed to be full of clichés this evening, the way she was after every graduation, and her mind persisted in framing phrases like, The best years of their lives, and, What a pity that youth is wasted on the young.

Reprinted with permission from Simon & Schuster.

Hunger Of Memory, Richard Rodriguez 1982

It was the religious calendar that governed my year. In early September there was a nine o'clock mass on the Friday of the first week of to pray for academic success. (Students were grouped according to class; behind my class would be my new teacher's face, a face I still wasn't used to.) In June, there was a mass of graduation for the eighth-graders. Between those events, often stopped or flowered as routine bowed to the sacred. In the middle of a geography or an arithmetic lesson, the nuns would lead us out of our classrooms and we would walk-four hundred students in double lines-down a block to church, stopping traffic (We were Catholics!) to attend a First Friday mass or a rosary to Mary. In Lent there were Friday Stations of the Cross. (Fourteen meditations on the passion of Christ-He stumbled, He fell-fourteen times the priest intoning, "We adore Thee, O Christ. . . .") Benediction, the adoration of the Host, followed. The lovely hymn, the Tantum Ergo , sounded as smoke of incense rose like vine. Upon the high altar stood a golden monstrance in the shape of a sunburst, at the center of which-exposed through a tiny window-was the round wafer of bread. We returned to the classroom, came back to the same paragraph in a still-opened book. Routine resumed. Sacred dramas of Church thus fitted into a day, never became the routine; rather they redeemed the routine.

Reprinted with permission from David R. Godine, Publisher Inc.

A Separate Peace, John Knowles 1959

I went back to the Devon not long ago, and found it looking oddly newer than when I was a student there fifteen years before. It seemed more sedate than I remembered it, more perpendicular and strait-laced, with narrower windows and shinier woodwork, as though a coat of varnish had been put over everything for better preservation. But, of course, fifteen years before there had been a war going on. Perhaps the wasn't as well kept up in those days; perhaps varnish, along with everything else, had gone to war.

I didn't entirely like the glossy new surface, because it made the look like a museum, and that's exactly what it was to me, and what I did not want it to be. In the deep, tacit way in which feeling becomes stronger than thought, I had always felt that the Devon came into existence the day I entered it, was vibrantly real while I was a student there, and then blinked out like a candle the day I left.

Reprinted with permission from Simon & Schuster.

Studs Lonigan: A Trilogy, James T. Farrell 1935

The old dump was St. Patrick's grammar ; and St. Patrick's meant a number of things to Studs. It meant , and was a jailhouse that might just as well have had barred windows. It meant the long, wide, chalk-smelling room of the seventh- and eighth-grade boys, with its forty or fifty squirming kids. It meant the second floor of the tan brick, undistinguished parish building on Sixty-first Street that had swallowed so much of Studs' life for the past eight years. It meant the black-garbed Sisters of Providence, with their rattling beads, their swishing strides, and the funny-looking wooden clappers they used, which made a dry snapping sound and which hurt like anything when a guy got hit over the head with one. It meant Sister Carmel, who used to teach fourth grade, but was dead now; and who used to hit everybody with the edge of a ruler because she knew they all called her the bearded lady. It meant Studs, twisting in his seat, watching the sun come in the window to show up the dust on the floor, twisting and squirming, and letting his mind fly to all kinds of places that were not like .

Originally published by the Vanguard Press.

The Quiet Dust And Other Writings, William Styron 1982

There were, I believe, only fifty-odd boys. We were poor. The was poor. Many s at the end of the Depression were poor, but the threadbare nature of Christchurch was almost Dickensian in its pathos. The library, for instance. At sixteen, I had a natural inclination for geography and I loved to pore over maps, but in the library there was only one geography book. It was not a bad atlas, had it been left undamaged, but it had been divested of Africa and all of Eastern Europe-something which to this day has produced significant gaps in my knowledge of the earth. The works of American literature stopped with Jack London-no Hemingway, no Fitzgerald, no Thomas Wolfe, no Theodore Dreiser; in compensation, we had the laudable work Tom Sawyer , but even this boy's classic palled upon perhaps the fifth reading. The Encyclopaedia Britannica was of such antique vintage that its information in the technological sphere alone ceased, I remember, with the invention of the telegraph and the diving bell. The pride of the entire library was a complete twenty-volume Shakespeare, but at least three volumes had been left out in the rain and the pages were stuck together, while someone else had stolen both King Lear and Richard III. Despite all this deprivation, I managed to get educated enough to pass on to college and acquit myself with at least passable honor. Our masters, good-natured and hideously underpaid drudges who possessed nonetheless high ideals and admirable patience, dispensed as much learning as was within their power. I still salute them in memory.

Reprinted with permission from Random House Inc.

The Woman Warrior: Memoirs Of A Girlhood Among Ghosts, Maxine Hong Kingston 1976

It was when I found out I had to talk that became a misery, that the silence became a misery. I did not speak and felt bad each time that I did not speak. I read aloud in first grade, though, and heard the barest whisper with little squeaks come out of my throat. "Louder," said the teacher, who scared the voice away again. The other Chinese girls did not talk either, so I knew the silence had to do with being a Chinese girl.

Reprinted with permission from Random House Inc.

High Tide In Tucson, Barbara Kingsolver 1995

I reached high at the close of the sixties, in the Commonwealth of Kentucky, whose ranking on educational spending was I think around fifty-first, after Mississippi and whatever was below Mississippi. Recently Kentucky has drastically changed the way money is spent on its s, but back then, the wealth of the county decreed the wealth of the , and few coins fell far from the money trees that grew in Lexington. Our county, out where the bluegrass begins to turn brown, was just scraping by. Many a dedicated teacher served out earnest missions in our halls, but it was hard to spin silk purses out of a sow's ear budget. We didn't get anything fancy like Latin or Calculus. Apart from English, the only two courses of study that ran for four consecutive years, each one building upon the last, were segregated: Home Ec for girls and Shop for boys. And so I stand today, a woman who knows how to upholster, color-coordinate a table setting, and plan a traditional wedding-valuable skills I'm still waiting to put to good use in my life.

Reprinted with permission from HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

Lake Wobegon Days, Garrison Keillor 1985

started the day after Labor Day, Tuesday, the Tuesday when my grandfather went, and in 1918 my father, and in 1948 me. It was the same day, in the same brick house, the former New Albion Academy, now named Nelson . The same misty painting of George Washington looked down on us all from above the blackboard, next to his closest friend, Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln was kind and patient and we looked to him for sympathy. Washington looked as if he had a headache. His mouth was set in a prim, pained expression of disapproval. Maybe people made fun of him for his long, frizzy hair, which resembled our teacher's, Mrs. Meiers', and that had soured his disposition. She said he had bad teeth-a good lesson for us to remember: to brush after every meal, up and down, thirty times. The great men held the room in their gaze, even the back corner by the windows. I bent over my desk, trying to make fat vowels sit on the line like fruit, the tails of consonants hang below, and colored the maps of English and French empires, and memorized arithmetic tables and state capitals and major exports of many lands, and when I was stumped, looked up to see George Washington's sour look and Lincoln's look of pity and friendship, an old married couple on the wall. , their old home, smelled of powerful floor wax and disinfectant, the smell of patriotism.

Reprinted with permission from Penguin Putnam Inc.

Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov 1955

I had hoped Beardsley for girls, an expensive day , with lunch thrown in and a glamorous gymnasium, would, while cultivating all those young bodies, provide some formal education for their minds as well. Gaston Godin, who was seldom right in his judgment of American habitus, had warned me that the institution might turn out to be one of those where girls are taught, as he put it with a foreigner's love for such things: "not to spell very well, but to smell very well." I don't think they achieved even that.

At my first interview with headmistress Pratt, she approved of my child's "nice blue eyes" (blue! Lolita!) and of my own friendship with that "French genius" (a genius! Gaston!)-and then, having turned Dolly over to a Miss Cormorant, she wrinkled her brow in a kind of recueillement and said:

"We are not so much concerned, Mr. Humbird, with having our students become bookworms or be able to reel off all the capitals of Europe which nobody knows anyway, or learn by heart the dates of forgotten battles. What we are concerned with is the adjustment of the child to group life. This is why we stress the four D's: Dramatics, Dance, Debating and Dating. . . ."

Reprinted with permission from Random House Inc.

Vol. 10, Issue 8, Pages 44-48

Published in Print: May 1, 1999, as Schoolhouse Memories
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