When I was in 5th grade my family moved from Arlington, MA to a small central
Mass town named Hubbardston. I was heartbroken. I loved the man who was to be
my stepfather but I didn't want to leave all I knew behind, especially in
exchange for trees, trees, and more trees. Arlington was my home. Hubbardston
was only (ONLY!) an hour away but it may have been Alaska for all I knew. 9
years old and zero control over any part of my life seemed absolutely
unreasonable given that I declared at age 5 I could do whatever I wanted. At
age 5 doing whatever I wanted included such luxuries as no bed time, not going
in when called, ignoring all adult requests if I felt like it, and going where
I pleased when I pleased, i.e. to the corner spa for Slush Puppies after
breakfast. It didn't need to include long distance transport because everything
I needed was within walking distance or a whine away.
Kids find ways to cope with transition and change any way they can, good, bad,
or indifferent. My way of coping was being social and my way of being social
was close to down right obnoxious. I wanted to be accepted and the way I went
about being accepted was by having annoying crushes on boys and disregarding
anything that wasn't easy for me, like school. School had been somewhat easy
for me up until then. I started my education at St. Agnes in Arlington. I made
it through 3rd grade before I'd had enough of uniforms and looming religious
statues that reminded me of how awful I was for sinning on a daily basis. My
mother let me transfer to the public school in our neighborhood for 4th grade
and I loved it. It was long before MCAS and current education practices so the
level I entered 4th grade with was higher than the public school. I can say
what I will about Catholicism but I can't say I didn't get the foundation of an
excellent education at Catholic school.
When I moved to Hubbardston, it was a different kind of new school experience
than I had in Arlington. I couldn't go home in the afternoon and find the
neighborhood kids I grew up with and play with them, kids who already
accepted me and loved me. I was brand new. Hubbardston had one elementary
school in comparison to Arlington's 6+. There was no avoiding the fact that I was
going to have to find a way to fit in and focusing on school was the last thing
on my mind.
I can't say if Hubbardston was more difficult in it's curriculum but I can say
that it didn't fit into my social agenda. My life had changed drastically in
the past three years. My father had died at his own hand, my mother met and was
remarrying another man, and we were moving to a new town. Survival seems like a
dramatic term, but that was what I was doing when I was dismissing my studies,
surviving. One class that was sinking my ship was social studies. I hadn't
really had social studies the way that Hubbardston was peddling it so when I
first sat in Mr. Sweeney's social studies class, I had no clue what I was in
for.
Mr. Sweeney was a slim, small man with glasses and black hair in about his 50s,
if not 60s. I could be way off because I perceived him as teacher age and who
the hell knows what that is at age 9. He didn't smile or laugh. He taught his
way and he didn't tolerate any shit. In hind sight, he was the quintessential
school teacher of the 50s, 60s, and 70s. It was 1988 and he was still in the no
bullshit mode so between that and my survival tactics, I was screwed.
Mr. Sweeney was teaching us ancient history. We had to remember dates and who
did what when, which is normal for history. It was not normal for me because I
had never done it before and I wasn't clear on, or didn't care, what his idea
of acceptable effort was. He had something called Thought Questions which today
would be defined as an essay question. He gave us a question or prompt and
without the book we had to answer it in full, dates, names, places included. As
a teacher, it is an excellent way to get kids writing and thinking....hence
THOUGHT Question. As a student, I hated it. So what did I do? I ignored school,
mainly social studies.
I've already made it clear that my mother didn't take any nonsense. She didn't
give a rat's ass what my excuse was for much of anything because chances are I
was being lazy, lying, or dramatic. My perception of how much Mr. Sweeney hated
me was no different. She threatened me with military school on a regular basis.
My father's death was no excuse for any kind of acting up or out, or any odd
behavior really. It wasn't so much a cruelty on her part but a way of life and
her idea of survival. You pick yourself up by the boot straps and you keep
going. In an ideal world where I am void of the emotional Italian gene and
genetic predisposition for depression, that would work. But, alas, I was the
epitome of emotional Italian and I would have worn black for the rest of my
childhood to show mourning if it had been an option. Back then, despite my weekly
trips to a child psychologist, there was no reason to stop living or misbehave.
I was expected to do what I was told and what she and my stepfather knew I was
capable of doing without question, at all times. However, I was having a tough
time all around.
Mr. Sweeney may or may not have been privy to why I was such a nightmare. No
one talked about death and suicide as a reason to take it easy on a kid back
then. The school didn't even know until I told them that my father had not only
died, not only shot himself, but did so while I was taking a bath. The school
counselor called my parents immediately and on their end, it wasn't something
they were sympathetic towards but embarrassed about. We had moved to start a
new life and there I was, running my mouth, airing the family laundry in
public. In reality, I was crying out for help of some sort because I didn't
know what the hell was going on in my head or that I was most likely depressed.
Needless to say, my parents were not impressed with me or my behavior, never
mind my declaration of family laundry.
I continued to brush off school. I was constantly grounded. I got caught
cheating for social studies. By 'got caught' I mean that when my mother found
my stone washed jeans with a huge blue pen scribble on the leg and asked what
it was with complete aggravation, I defended myself with,
"IwroteonmylegtocheatinsocialstudiesbutIdidn'tuseit". Similar to when
I stole two strawberry candies from the sub shop in Arlington, she marched my
ass right up to school the next morning so I could tell Mr. Sweeney that I had
cheated. I think he was as surprised as I was that my parents actually went
through with it. We needed to remember three sets of dates, in the B.C. range
for a Thought test. As is almost always the case with my few attempts to cheat,
once I wrote down the info to remember on some surface, I no longer needed to
actually look. I remembered those dates perfectly for the test. I didn't
remember them when I got home that night or even the next day. Now, don't ask
me what happened with that Thought Test because I assume I was made to take it
over or even get a zero. The point here is this: I was in a pre-adolescent
nervous breakdown and under no circumstances was I going to get away with
misbehaving. It simply was not acceptable.
And when things didn't improve, and the twelve walls of my bedroom were
becoming like indelible images in my brain (I lived in a round house with 12
walls), my mother was furious. Of course, she threatened reform school and I
took her seriously. If I didn't get a C in social studies, my ass was grass and
she wasn't simply a lawn mower, she was a freakin' tractor. Poor Mr. Sweeney, I
think he felt my pain. He probably saw the fire in my mother's eyes the night
she went to a conference with him and told him I would be attending reform
school if I didn't get a C in his class. I don't want it to be mistaken, she
didn't threaten Mr. Sweeney into giving me any grade; she simply shared with
him that I would no longer be getting away with my crap if all of my grades
didn't add up to a C. She didn't expect a C, she expected the truth and if
truth was a D, then I was packing my bags.
Somehow, someway, Mr. Sweeney came through for me because when I got that
report card and saw a C, I was elated. I showed my mother, smiling, and was met
with the look of steel.
"That was a gift," she told me. I was confused.
"What do you mean?" Why the hell wasn't she pumped? I managed to get
a C!
"You didn't get a C. You should have gotten a D. Mr. Sweeney obviously
felt bad for you when I told him that you'd be going to reform school if you
didn't get a C." It never even crossed my mind that it could have been a
threat or a suggestion or anything. I saw it for what it was -- she was pissed
and it was because of me, not Mr. Sweeney who was doing his job.
"Oh," I said, mentally shrinking into the floor.
" 'Oh' is right! He won't be so nice next time so I suggest you stop being
so Goddamned lazy and do the work you are capable of. You are not trying your
hardest. You better thank your lucky stars that he was nice enough to help
you." I'm sure I had a smart ass response, but deep down, I was thanking
Mr. Sweeney. He didn't have to help me, but he did. Did this mean he liked me?
No...wasn't possible...or was it? Either way, I had a new respect for him. I
never told anyone I respected him, but I did. I still don't know, and never
will, if he knew my situation or not. What I do think he knew was that my
mother was serious and no teacher, not even me, wants to be the reason some kid
is being so severely punished. I had a student who made me absolutely insane
with laziness and lying and so forth. His mother threatened to take away
Christmas, which she had apparently done before, and I just couldn't bring
myself to make that happen. I expect kids to tow the line, but I just couldn't
be the reason some sixth grade boy wouldn't get any gifts for Christmas.
Seniors who think they never have to do a lick of work after the first semester
of school, different story, but a kid, and an immature one at that, I just
couldn't do it.
Mr. Sweeney was my social studies teacher the following year as well, in sixth
grade. It went much smoother, I think, than fifth. By then, it was my big mouth
that was getting me grounded, not bad grades. Either way, never at one point
did I expect that I would be coddled because of my home life or parental
situation. My mother didn't expect it and my teachers weren't offering it. And
just like Ms. Kostandos, there was an expectation I was to meet and if I
didn't, I would have to work at it until I did. It wasn't about learning the
material; it was about the discipline and shaping of a human being that
mattered. You know, back in the day when teachers were allowed to be a part of
that, shaping a human as opposed to coddling one? Hands down, whether I liked
it or not, Mr. Sweeney helped shape me. It is something I admire in a teacher.
If we were all more focused on shaping humans as opposed to testing them, we'd be
a much different society.
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