just part of my memoir

Looking back on my experiences in the academic world, first grade was and continues to be the worst year of my life. Maybe it was the fact that school lasted six full hours, opposed to kindergarten’s measly half day schedule. Maybe it was the fact that I was missing my two front teeth that year, which caused me to have a horrible lisp. But after reminiscing for awhile, I’ve come to the conclusion that first grade was the most dreadful year of my existence all thanks to my teacher, Miss Colleen Lindsey. Though she was in possession of youth and beauty, she was as strict as a nun and as cruel as a copperhead snake. Miss Lindsey insisted that the Lego bins were color coordinated and that our desk space was kept immaculate. She was also a rather unapproachable person. She sneered when I asked questions about math problem. She made sarcastic remarks when I asked questions about the spelling homework. She rolled her eyes and sighed when I asked questions about anything. By October, I had stopped asking questions.
One thing that Miss Lindsey despised more than questions was crumbs. She forbade her students from bringing in snacks that could leave such loathsome residue, whish is practically impossible, since any food that a group of seven year olds munch will undoubtedly leave crumbs behind. One cool afternoon in late autumn, I opened my Blues Clues lunch box to find that my mom had packed me a small bag of pretzels along with a love note written on my napkin. Immediately, I realized this snack was forbidden. But the hunger burned ulcers in my stomach, crying out for some nourishment. Discreetly, I attempted to feast. Yet the moment Miss Lindsey’s wolf-ears heard the crinkling of the bag, I was reprimanded. “Throw that out!” She screeched. So while the rest of the class ate their morning snacks, I sat silently, hands folded on my desk, stomach rumbling so loudly that I’m sure the art class down the hallways could hear it. Only Lisa Monetti and Justin Zadrozny could eat such snacks. They were “neat.” Miss Lindsey had her favorites, and those two beloved students fell into that category. But I, with my sloppy handwriting, nervous stutter, and forbidden pretzels, was certainly not one of them.
Another event that even furthered Miss Lindsey’s dislike for me occurred on a miserable, rainy Tuesday afternoon in January. After completing the exercises in my Phonics workbook, I looked up on the chalkboard to see Miss Lindsey’s familiar, brisk handwriting that instructed us to begin lunch after finishing the assignment. Miss Lindsey would much rather make us read the itinerary on the board than having to use her voice and explain it to the class. As I searched the coat closet for my beloved Blues Clues lunch box, I made the startling discovery that I had left my mommy-made lunch at home. As a sensitive first grader, this occurrence was devastating to me. So while the rest of the children gobbled up their brown-bag lunches, I sat empty-handed at my desk again, except this time, tears drenched my cheeks, dripped down my chin, and stained the front of my sky blue t-shirt. Miss Lindsey scanned the room and stopped at me. Her hawk-like eyes narrowed as she marched towards the insubordinate seven year old that I was. “Katie G, you aren’t listening to the directions, Katie G,” she snapped, without a hint of compassion. I hated that she called me Katie G. I was obviously the only student named Katie in the class. Adding the first letter of my last name just added an unfriendly hint of formality. Stifling back sobs, I tried to explain myself.
“I-I-I…….for-got……. my……. luuunch!” I wailed. There. I had confessed my sins. I had hoped Miss Lindsey would comfort me, call my mom, and have her drop off the much-missed lunch. But I had no such luck. Coldly, Miss Lindsey told me to go to the girls room and wash my face. Then I was to go to the nurse’s office and get an “emergency Sammie”. This ridiculous term meant that the nurse would give me a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich that she kept stored in her mini-fridge for all the other students who were unlucky like me. The sandwich was cold and tasteless. This brand of peanut butter used on the sandwich was the disgusting kind that stuck to your throat as you swallowed. Needless to say, I never forgot my lunch again. Yet Miss Lindsey’s disgust for my cry-baby tendencies stuck worse than that peanut-butter.
Not only did Miss Lindsey show no compassion towards me, she also managed to stifle my creativity and development- which is the opposite of what a first grade teacher should be doing. In March, we were assigned brand new reading textbooks. Though I was a poor math student, I had acquired a simply insatiable hunger to read.. The glossy cover of the new books, the fresh printer smell of their pages, and the crinkling sound of the spine as the book opened and closed was thrilling to me. During lunch and quiet time, I would pull out this marvelous treasure and immerse myself in its lovely stories, about magical foxes and creatures of the lagoon. Occasionally, Miss Lindsey would have the class read an excerpt from the textbook. But couldn’t bear to leave such mystical stories unread. One afternoon, Miss Lindsey caught me. “Those stories are not to be read on your own Katie G!” She scolded. In front of the whole class, she went on to explain that they simply weren’t my reading level. Refuting her claim hadn’t even crossed my mind. Timidly, I apologized. It was no big deal. I had practically finished the textbook anyways.
In March, Miss Lindsey assigned us a new composition. It was one of those mindless repetition pieces about what to bring to Grandmother’s house. For example, she wanted us to write: I would bring a bicycle to Grandmother’s house. I would bring cookies and a bicycle to Grandmother’s house. I would bring a pillow, cookies, and a bicycle to Grandmother’s house….etc. I could have written a beautiful, coherent essay describing the bicycle I brought to Grandmother’s house, down to its blue crusty paint flecks. But I could not grasp this concept of a distinctive pattern. Especially since I had been in the bathroom while she was explaining the project. I knew Miss Lindsey hated to repeat herself, and I knew not to ask questions unless you were bleeding. Even then, I doubt she would point out the way to the band-aids. Therefore, I sat at my desk, baffled, trying to choke back tears once more. Determined to figure out this complicated piece, I worked all afternoon, even through lunch.
As the class turned in their assignments, I held my breath as I handed mine to Miss Lindsey. “Maybe she won’t read mine!” I silently prayed. But of course, my un-legible handwriting caught Miss Lindsey’s snake eye. As she squinted to decipher what was written, I said a few hail Marys. I wasn’t even Catholic. The rest of the class returned to their seats silently, while I was left standing in front of the room with Miss Lindsey. After a moment of analysis, which felt like an eternity, Miss Lindsey had reached her verdict. “This makes no sense, Katie G!” She barked. Glaring at me, she clutched my paper with her claws and tore it up vertically, into two jagged pieces. “This is garbage,” she snarled. A deafening silence swept over the whole class as Miss Lindsey dropped the remnants of my composition in the waste paper bin. She didn’t even have the heart to recycle. The bell rang and I ran from the room, too shocked to even cry. With the flick of her wrists and sting of her words, Miss Lindsey destroyed all confidence I had in myself as a student. I was diminished to junk. Never in my eighteen years of life have I ever felt so humiliated.