Movin’ On Up!
As I said, in such a tiny enclave, you knew all the teachers. Well, lemmee tell you, the first grade teacher was a force of nature………or something far darker. She looked to us like a taller version of Hagar the Horrible’s wife. All she needed was the horn helmet and a few lessons and she was all set to do Die Walkure at the Met. Her voice carried across the play areas and she commanded complete obedience from all kids, even sixth graders.
I’m sure in reality she was anything but an inhuman beast, but that first day, we sat rigid and trembling inside, begging our collective kidneys to hold breakfast. No furtive looks at each other, just staring straight ahead as she laid the rules down and taught us the Pledge of Allegiance and what it meant.
Her room also connected to the bathroom that the kindergarten used. One of the few memories I have was hearing snickering behind me and turning to see a puddle under a girl’s desk.
Now we carried tin lunchboxes every day. Boys predictably had cowboys, soldiers, or dinosaurs; girls had ponies, Barbies, or unicorns. On the first day, we showed her the lunchboxes and if there was a duplicate, she put tape on one so there would be no confusion. From then on, lunchboxes went on the side of the room, under the coat hook. When it was lunch time, we noiselessly got our lunchboxes and sat down. Then we formed a silent line and walked to the auditorium to eat–to be fair, she always made sure a different kid led the line every day.
Her biggest rule was EVERYONE knocks at the door before they opened it. The principal even followed the rule to emphasize its importance. I suspect that the closed door also kept her voice from carrying down the hall.
We were in the home stretch one November day, shortly before dismissal, when the door flew open and slammed against the wall, no doubt shaving a year from our collective lives. She turned, eyes glowing with anger, as the girls’ gym teacher yelled “The President has been shot!” before she ran to the next room. The sight of our scary teacher standing transfixed, mouth agape and staring at the empty doorway is singed into my consciousness, like the beginning of the Wild Bunch–a frozen figure against a red background.
She herded us into the teacher’s lounge–a very small room with a few chairs and a black and white TV. We stared uncomprehending at the chaos on CBS station, wandering what this meant. A few adults sniffed tears. Parents were called; the principal immediately shut us down early. My mom, being a teacher, was probably among the first called. I learned later that all the other kids were sent to the auditorium to be picked up early, or sent home at regular time.
This was a touchstone to my generation–I can’t count how many times I swapped stories with people my age–at college over whiskey shots, in quiet moments with a HS girlfriend, at work when JFK’s name came up, or with members of my wife’s large extended family. I even had a weird corporate trainer doing a session in the 00’s use the ‘where were you’ question to ‘break the ice,’
I’m no movie critic, but if you want to see how the Kennedys’ deaths left their mark, rent Night Moves with the great Gene Hackman. The ‘where were you’ was just something you could ask anyone at any time,