My Kindergarten through 5th grade years were
spent at a super strict Baptist private school. When I say “super strict,”
whatever image comes to mind pales in comparison to our reality. It was not
plaid skirts and memory verses. I have very few memories, if any, of my
teachers being nurturing. My kindergarten teacher was along the lines of one of
the nuns in The Sound of Music – well, except she was Baptist, and the
Catholics were going to hell. Teachers were one step down from God, and God was
not loving or kind. He was watching your every movement, knowing your every
intent, and reading your every evil thought. To even think about sinning was a
sin. As a child I tried very hard not to think thoughts that I was not supposed
to think, but it seemed the harder I tried not to think them, the harder and
faster and more sinful they became. My thoughts mocked me, and I often
despaired for my soul.
We ended up leaving the Christian school because my middle
trouble brother got kicked out. He was in sixth and I was in fifth, which meant
we shared a classroom. I remember I sat in the middle front, and he sat in the back-left
corner. The teacher started ridiculing him, and then teasing him when she was
able to make him cry – telling the entire class to turn around and look at the
big baby in the back. He turned redder than red, stood up, balled his fists,
and screamed “Fuck you!” at the lady. In that moment, I was proud of him. She
deserved it. And he said what many others had mumbled quietly for years.
In sixth grade I went to public school for the first time. I
was certain my eternal fate was hopeless – they taught about sex ed, science,
and PE. Boys tried to snap a bra I didn’t have. I begged my mother to send me
back, but they couldn’t. I’m sure it broke her heart too, but the private
school was behind us, and the public school was before us. I floated in the
hallways, feeling invisible, backwards, and small.
My homeroom teacher was Mr. Peleck. I had never had a male
teacher ever, so in and of itself, that was pretty strange. He was also my
reading teacher, and he seemed really nice. I tried to become a flower on the
wall, do my work, get good grades, and mind my own business. I remember in
reading class I sat pretty much right in the middle of the classroom of
probably 30 or so.
Every day during reading we would have 30 minutes of quiet
time to read. I know this is the class where I fell head over heels in love
with the book Bridge to Terabithia. One day during the silent reading time, I had
the hiccups. I learned how to hold in sneezes and make them silent during
elementary to avoid getting into trouble, and I was doing a fairly good job
with the hiccups, but the classroom was so quiet, it was impossible. I
peacefully kept reading, hiccupping softly every now and then.
Suddenly, Mr. Peleck slammed his own reading material down
onto his desk, to which we all jumped and turned and looked. He was staring
right at me, and he was mad. “That’s it Feller! Go to the office!”
I turned 100 shades of red as only blondes and red-heads can, as 30 eyes turned on me. I was
mortified. I tried to explain. “But, Mr….”
“You heard me. Get your things and go to the office.”
“But-“
“No buts. I am tired of you interrupting my class.”
I knew I could not argue and I picked up my things and
headed for the door, filled with shame. I had never, ever been sent to the principal's office (I made up for that in my later years). As I reached the door, he said, “Wait,
Amy.”
I turned around and his eyes were merry and bright and
dancing with joy - he had this big smile on his face. “Do you have the hiccups
anymore?”
I was so relieved. And I did not have the hiccups anymore. I
stared at him for what seemed like an eternity where thoughts and emotions were
crashing around my brain, but it was likely only five seconds, and I laughed. I
laughed. He laughed. The entire class laughed. It was funny. Something funny
happened in school! My teacher was funny!
Mr. Peleck taught me that learning can be fun – not just in
this scenario, but over a year. I have never, ever forgotten him. This weekend I
attended a retreat and a speaker asked us to think of our favorite teacher ever.
Instantly, it is Mr. Peleck. The speaker then asked us to think of why that
teacher made a difference – what did they do to reach you? What did they change
in your world? How did they communicate with you specifically? How did they
tailor a life lesson for you?
Mr. Peleck taught me about joy.
I think it’s a good reminder for me even now. I am quick
from my younger years to introduce guilt and shame into my thought process
immediately when something goes askew. It is my go-to - it is my demon I
battle. I would like to say I always will battle it, but recently I’ve seen
that maybe I might be able to slay that monster. A friend told me I could skip from
the problem straight to the solution and skip the shame – that idea blows my
ever-loving mind. I stared at him like he had a chicken on his head when he
said it. Yet remembering this scenario of Mr. Peleck gives me a renewed sense
of purpose. It would do me good to remember that life is fun – that learning is
fun.
…that somehow shame can be morphed into joy.
