Dear Joe:
The experiences Bob relates in "Schools are the root of classist society" -- and your comments on them -- echo some of my own memories of learning how things really work and who is served in the school systems. In my case it was parochial schools. In the spring semester of my fifth grade year – maybe late February, early March, 1957 – I moved from one Catholic school in Portland, Maine to another parochial school in Baltimore, Maryland. Both were run by the Sisters of Mercy.
The first big shock for me was that my new teacher in Baltimore was not a nun. She was a lay teacher. She wore street clothes, just like ordinary people. I'd never heard of, much less seen, such a thing. Apparently, the baby boom had produced fifth grade students faster than the orders and convents could churn out sisters to teach them.
The lay teacher was a Mrs. Dietz, a thin, dour-looking woman, I will never forget. My first day at the school, the Mother Superior ushered me into Mrs. Dietz's class and introduced me.
"This is Thomas," I remember her saying. "He comes from away. He'll probably fail this school year. Schools where he comes from are behind us."
That pretty much hung a "Kick Me" sign on my back.
Truth to tell, Mother Superior's estimation was not unfounded. I was quite far "behind" the others in the all-important subject of math, but not in English, history or geography. So, while my prospects looked grim, I at least had a shot at passing, provided I could make up my mathematical deficiencies in the remaining three months of the school year. (Note: The so-called "new" math that messed everyone up didn't appear in that school until I was in the seventh grade.)
I biked to school on a British racing green Raleigh my father bought me to ease the pain of the change. It was a great bike, but a wrong choice. It was un-American. It didn't have fat tires. Worse, it had three gears and a pansy-looking leather tool bag hanging behind the goofy narrow seat. These oddities only deepened the other kids' suspicion and disgust with me and led to fist fights, especially over the tool bag I refused to take off.
At first, things went along much as the Mother Superior had predicted. I wasn't doing well in math at all. Poor performance there was dragging me down into "hold back" territory.
But, one Friday afternoon I got home and realized I'd left both my math textbook and my weekend homework assignment sheet in my school desk. I panicked. Jumping on my bike, I madly rode the two miles back to the school hoping the doors weren't locked. The hallways and classrooms were empty, except for Mrs. Dietz's room where she was seated at her desk marking papers.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I left my book and assignment sheet. I came back to get them."
Mrs. Dietz just looked at me, not saying a word. She obviously wanted a fuller explanation.
"Because I don't want to fail."
Starting the next Monday, Mrs. Dietz kept me after school every day to coach me in math. With her help I managed to pass with good grades, even in math. Mrs. Dietz took no special credit for her extra effort. Never even mentioned it. My father once tried to thank her. She just shrugged and stared at him.
After Mrs. Dietz, though, it was cast iron nuns all the way through the sixth and seventh grades. The nuns were far more rigid and seemed to target me for special animosity. I later decided they never forgave me for failing to fail, as Mother Superior had commanded insolence of that sort branded me not only as an outsider, but as a troublemaker, as well.
In the class of about 40, as I recall it, a few of us outcasts hung together -- that would be myself, John R. and Gary E. -- until the sisters broke us up, putting us as far apart as they could get us in the far corner seats in the outside rows.
I probably wouldn't have learned anything in the sixth and seventh grades if Mrs. Dietz hadn't told me about the Enoch Pratt Free Library downtown.
"The Baynesville 3 bus will get you there and back," she said.
The Enoch Pratt Free was an open place of infinite learning where every Saturday I could wander through the stacks picking out books that looked interesting to me, and reading them right there, all day. I read all the essays of E.B. White I could find. I learned about the cultures of Native American tribes from oversized books with gorgeous color plates. I pondered the meaning of life while reading Wind in the Willows and wondered what the Story of O was about until the matronly librarian took it away from me, saying, "Maybe when you're older."
All in all, I'd say the ladies at the Enoch Pratt Free gave me better directions where to find true knowledge than any of the nuns did, and they were nicer about it, too.
On graduation day from the seventh grade the nun teacher I was going to have for the eighth grade pulled me aside.
"I know ALL about you," she said. "You won't be having so much fun next year."
How much less fun could the eighth grade possibly be, I wondered? I pleaded with my parents to let me go to Parkville Junior High School -- perish the thought -- a public school, instead. They did.
Sure, I was once again an outsider/newcomer when I got there, but I'd at least learned to survive such situations. Still, looking back on those years, I always remember Mrs. Dietz with feelings of gratitude. She may have been stern woman of few words, but she gave me a permanent appreciation of what some teachers can do for you, and how even without good teachers learning can be found if you look around.
Tom
------
Tom:
As a kid, I always thought the Catholic schools were somehow better. Must have been the uniforms.
My Mrs. Dietz was a fellow named Mr. Welch. He taught English and we had to write a paper every week. And every week he would tell me, "Joe, write what you feel." He never told any of the other kids to do that. And he told me that in front of the other kids with a look on his face that said: "If any of you so much as snicker when Joe reads it in class, your ass is grass." That made me feel special. Bad haircut, crappy shoes and all.
Forty years or so later I drove out to his house to thank him, because I figured he had something to do with me becoming a writer. Mr. Welch had become a fat old man, and he was riding a lawn mower when I drove up. Sitting on his patio, I said: "I was the best in the class. Why did I always get Cs?"
"No you weren't," he said. "You were just the most sincere. It was definitely C work, at best."
"Well, anyway, I think you had a big influence on me becoming a writer and reporter."
"You are a writer? That surprises the hell out of me. GOOD FOR YOU!"
All of which proves, to me at least, that teachers can do as much good by accident as on purpose, if their instincts are good and they can motivate kids to strive within themselves.
Solidarity,
Joe
