In third grade, I learned how to make Wonton Soup, aced timed tests for multiplication tables, and was very mean to a boy named Jason who said he liked me. I often jumped rope with my friends during recess, ate the same lunch nearly every day (peanut butter sandwich, granny smith apple, grape juice), and was allowed to wear earrings for the first time in a school photo.
I had two teachers in third grade. I loved Mrs. Godmoore. She was lovely. Everything a third grade teacher should be: kind but firm, loving but still distant, encouraging but disciplined. In third grade, I would have done anything for Mrs. Godmoore. Then there was her teaching partner, Mrs. Weiner. I hated Mrs. Weiner. She was evil. Everything a third grade teacher shouldn’t be. She humiliated children, yelled a lot, and never seemed pleased. I often thought that Mrs. Weiner hated children. I could never understand why someone who hated children would choose to be around them all day long.
In third grade, I was still a good kid. I was a straight A student, in the most advanced reading group, and at the head of the class. While I was always social and probably a little too talkative (okay, a lot too talkative), I rarely got into trouble at school. I had yet to develop the mouth I have now… you know, the one that rarely filters what my brain is thinking. In third grade, I respected my teachers, never questioned authority, and wished that Mrs. Weiner would just like me. But Mrs. Weiner would never like me.
One loud afternoon when Mrs. Weiner had lost all control of twenty-six third graders, I learned that I would never like her too. Mrs. Weiner screamed at the class to be quiet. We were told that we had to keep our hands on our desk for 5 minutes. The first person that talked, moved, breathed loudly would have their desk dumped. Yes, Mrs. Weiner was ready to humiliate a child by dumping their desk because she was tired, angry, and frustrated. When she turned her back, the boy next to me slipped something into my desk. I looked down to see what it was when it happened. She charged over to me with a look of murder in her eyes. And she dumped my desk. The good girl’s desk. Books, papers, pencils came flying out around me. I can’t remember making a noise but know that I was screaming on the inside.
Mrs. Weiner taught us all a lesson that day: Never fuck with Mrs. Weiner.
My mother says that I came home that day so upset it took her a while to get what happened out of me. Traumatized is what I was. Mom says she called the principal, had a conference with the teacher, and tried to make it right. She says that Mrs. Weiner apologized for losing control. All I know is that my mother didn’t deserve the apology. I did. I wasn't the same kid after my year with Mrs. Weiner.
In high school, I wanted to take Journalism as one of my electives. Until I found out that Journalism was taught by Mr. Weiner. There was no way I was going to take a class taught by the husband of the world’s worst third grade teacher.
I took Spanish instead.
This post was inspired by the November selection of the SV Moms Book Club, Close Encounters of the Third Grade Kind, by Phil Done. While reading the book, I was reminded of every teacher that I loved (and hated), even the ones whose names I've forgotten but whose faces are burned in my memory for the rest of my life. By the end of the book, I wished I could have a third-grade "do over" with Mr. Done as my teacher.
Disclosure: I received the book for free from the publisher to be able to participate in the book club. You can buy the book wherever fine book are sold.
