CityView Magazine

on second thought TheLearning Curve M By Mary Zahran ost children would probably tell you that the New Year does not begin on January 1st; it begins sometime in late August or early September when summer vacation ends and a new school term begins. A new school year, much like a new calendar year, offers infinite possibilities for learning and self-improvement. I recall the excitement I felt as I purchased new school supplies to put into my Dutch Masters cigar box. I knew that the combination of newly sharpened pencils, freshly covered books and new, scuff-free shoes signaled bright days ahead when my young, eager mind would be filled with fascinating facts and ideas. Every year, almost without fail, shortly after I entered the gleaming, disinfected school building (which would never be as clean again until the following summer), several unpleasant, but terribly important, things would happen: my pencils would break, my book pages would tear, my shoes would get muddied and I would once again discover that the most important lessons I learned at school had nothing whatsoever to do with any academic subjects. My real education, as I like to refer to it, began in Mrs. Kidd's kindergarten class. Alternately playing the role of class clown and teacher's pet, I endured an occasional reprimand for talking too much (my family finds this news shocking). The worst punishment that Mrs. Kidd would dole out was to place a student in THE BROWN CHAIR, a seat reserved for the most serious offenders. I sat in this chair only once—the humiliation was too much for my tender little psyche. My crime was spilling a bottle of iodine all over the legs of my friend who had skinned her knees. I thought I was being helpful by administering first aid, but my teacher saw things differently. 12 | August • 2013 What lesson did I learn that day? I learned that the real offender was Mrs. Kidd, who ran a school where a small child had easy access to dangerous (and stinky) chemicals. Perhaps Mrs. Kidd should have placed herself in THE BROWN CHAIR while I, her precocious charge, taught the class. I owe my next instructional memory to Mrs. Maxwell, my second-grade teacher, whose wide, white streak in her black hair reminded me of Cruella de Vil. Unfortunately, the similarity did not end there. Like Miss de Vil, Mrs. Maxwell could strike terror in the hearts of children, especially when she pulled out her paddle and waved it as a warning to anyone who was even thinking of misbehaving. Those were the days when teachers weren't sued or arrested, just feared and obeyed. One Friday afternoon, as I skipped home in the joyful anticipation of two days free from Mrs. Maxwell and her paddle, I noticed a car passing by. It was not just any car—it was a brand new, baby blue Thunderbird convertible. The top was down, and there was music blasting from the radio—I think it was the Supremes. In the driver's seat sat none other than Mrs. Maxwell, smiling broadly as she sang along with Diana Ross. I knew for certain that it was my teacher because the sunlight bounced off her raven hair, highlighting the white streak that seemed to divide her head into two neat hemispheres. What lesson did I learn that day? I learned that Mrs. Maxwell had an identical twin who surfaced every Friday afternoon about three o'clock to drive a sleek car and listen to Motown while her sister, the real Mrs. Maxwell, remained at school all weekend to polish her paddle and practice frowning in the mirror in the teachers' lounge. My third-grade teacher, the aptly named Mrs. Gruff, did with words what Mrs. Maxwell threatened to do with her paddle. Like a character straight out of a Dickens novel, Mrs. Gruff devoted much of her day to interrogating and belittling

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