To be fair, even as a child, I was outspoken.
It was the time when “children should be seen
and not heard” was the prevailing philosophy and I missed that memo.
Adults were to be respected, but in my
household the adults often acted more like children than the children, so my
perception on that accord was a bit skewed, as well.
As for teachers, I can sum up our relationship
like this: They were being paid to be
there, and I was there by law. Except
for the nuns, of course. It was their
calling in life to transform us from sinners to, if not saints, at least
something a cut above illiterate heathens, and with their stern manner and
intimidating black robes, they were well-equipped to do so. And
yet, I’m certain I sent more than one of them to confession for harboring
un-Christ-like thoughts.
I was a curious child who questioned
everything. Back then the distinction
between faith and fact was lost on me.
“Why is it as hard for a rich man to get into heaven
as it is for a camel to go through the eye of a needle? That sounds a bit unfair. What if he’s a nice man?” I would ask, and off to Mother Superior I
would go. Of course now, with income
inequality being what it is in this country, I see that their teaching was
positively prophetic.
The final straw in my religious education came when
I stood on a tree stump on the playground one fine morning and declared myself to
be the Virgin Mary. It was generally
agreed upon that I was better suited for public school.
And so it was that in the third grade I became the
problem of ordinary public servants, underpaid men and women who, lacking the
authority of God, counted heavily on children being taught certain rules of
conduct at home. Unfortunately for them,
my education in that particular area was a bit lacking. I never learned to take “no” for an answer
which, while trying on the adults around me at the time, served the adult I
would become very well as I made my way in the rejection-heavy business of
writing for television.
High school proved no better for the teachers in
my path. A smart kid who could have
gotten all A’s and B’s had I cared to, the most often phrase seen on my report
cards was “underachiever.” I couldn’t
help it. I was bored. Then came sophomore English and Miss
O’Toole. Suddenly, my mind burst open
like fireworks on the Fourth of July. “Grapes of Wrath,” “To Kill a Mockingbird” –
she even made Shakespeare come alive for me!
Freakin’ Shakespeare! I loved
Miss O’Toole and I got an “A” in her class.
So, in choosing my teachers for my junior year, naturally I requested
her again.
Imagine my 16-year-old shock when my counselor
told me that my beloved Miss O’Toole didn’t want me back in her class. Apparently, I was disruptive. WTF?
I was flummoxed. I was
hurt. I was shamed. Now you would think that the counselor would
have brought us both in to discuss the situation and try to work things out –
being that I got a fucking “A” and all.
But that did not happen. There
would be no meeting, no explanation. I
would instead be put into the class of another teacher, whose name I cannot
even remember, where I would literally sleep through the entire semester, yet
somehow still manage to squeak out a “D.”
It would be nearly a decade before I took an interest in learning
again.
I have often thought of Miss O’Toole over the
years. I’ve wondered if she ever saw my
name on her television screen and thought, “I wonder… Nah. Couldn’t be.”
