
Second grade was the worst year of my entire educational existence. I had Mrs. T., nee Valentine, but who had no connection to hearts/love in my mind—I was quite sure she probably devoured the hearts of small animals or lost children on the weekends for fun if she hadn’t been able to take out her frustrations on her class in great enough quantity during the week. She made a point of calling out my weirdness whenever it popped out–usually in a very embarrassing way.
I was so ecstatic when we received our class assignments for the following year. The name on the piece of paper: Mrs. Haskell. I had seriously scored.
Mrs. Haskell had beautifully tanned skin - like Pocohantas. Her hair was styled in a modern way – not tied back in a bun or up in some kind of beehive hairdo like most teachers. She moved with a meandering grace. She never seemed in a hurry or out of sorts. She wore beautiful arts and crafts jewelry made of turquoise or artistically crafted metals. Her glasses were ahead of the times for teachers – no cat eye frames! She had a penchant for earth colors and turtle neck sweaters. She spoke with some kind of accent—it seemed very exotic to me. It might have meant that she was from Southern Iowa or the Southern US for all I knew. All I did know is she was the height of kindness. Besides having a beautiful smile, she was a good and patient teacher. If Iowans knew of Buddhism in those days, I’d bet she practiced.
Every day, she’d read from one of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. The class was fun. She challenged me in my reading. We had lots of opportunity to play in the arts – whether it be painting or theatre. She never embarrassed me. And, the proof of her near-perfection was the fact she somehow put up with Paul Kerr, the 3rd grade retread and master showman of our class. Show-n-tell was sure to bring a wild story from Paul that would cut into everyone’s time, but had us all in stitches. I was in heaven.
Except that time I got caught stealing a pack of Wild Cherry Lifesavers from Bob’s Rainbow Groceryland over the lunch hour one day. David Farris, the kid with me, did not get caught. He offered me one of his hijacked Spearmint Lifesavers as consolation for my getting busted, but I could not eat it. In fact, I would not go back for months after I apologized and made restitution. I was late getting back to class because of my involuntary detention at Bob’s while he called my mom.
I had to explain to Mrs. Haskell why I was late. I was so ashamed. But, she did not shame me further. In fact, she made me feel better about facing my situation and dealing with it. She probably did not know how important how she handled that moment had been to me. Maybe the reason she never felt a need to call out my weirdness was because she was a little different too. A crush was born.
Sometime that year, she stopped coming to class. We had a substitute. That sub would stay the rest of the semester. In the confusion, I took the opportunity to change my name to my more gender-neutral middle name. The sub agreed, but then I kept forgetting I’d done it and wouldn’t answer to it when she called on me. Oh, well.
I guess Mr. Haskell, who taught art at the university, got sick. I heard words bandied about, like, “Iron Lung.” Then, I heard he died. I was very sad for her.
I moved on to the next grade and another teacher who didn’t see me, only she would not be as mean as the one before Mrs. Haskell. Come May Day, I made Mrs. Haskell a May basket. My mom drove us along our basket route, I jumped out and ran up to her porch, dropped the basket and paused—through her large picture window I peeked into her world–I stood there for a long time–gazing over the artistic treasures –– and books, lots and lots of books—she had adventures I would someday have—and now I’d seen the future. Mom honked, so I rang the bell, and ran.