Greetings from Carol Jones,
I started school in New York City at the age of 5.
It was an experiment.
To get children out from under the feet of their harried mothers in their small apartments and into school. Before the days of kindergarten and pre-school.
I was unwilling to go to school. I’d heard nothing about the regimentation of school that appealed to me.
More to the point, I did everything I could possibly do to impede my mother’s progress up East 82nd Street, across 2nd Avenue and up the stairs to PS 190.
I grabbed every iron railing along the way and held on as tight as I could while my mother pried my fingers loose.
She had to drag me across 2nd Avenue, much to the bemusement of the New York City traffic cop on duty during school hours.
When we got to PS 190, she let go of my hand. For just a second.
As quick as a fox, with both hands, I grabbed the iron railing at the bottom of the stairs and held on as if my life depended on it. Which it did. I did not want to go to school for any reason.
She called in the militia to prise me loose. It took two teachers to disentangle my fingers from the railing.
When I refused to walk up the stairs, my mother picked me up by the waist and carried me up the stairs like a sack of potatoes. And dumped me at the feet of the two teachers who helped her.
Who stared at me in horror.
The school year in New York City was 180 days of attendance. I attended the first 72 days and never went back to school that year.
I caught whooping cough.
And a whopping case of whooping cough.
When it was apparent I would miss a big chunk of school, my mother colluded with the New York City school system, and I’m sure amiably helped by my first grade teacher who found me difficult, to teach me at home so I could pass into the 2nd grade.
I was probably the first child to be home schooled in New York City.
And we had a great time.
My mother was a fun teacher.
She was very creative and taught me how to spell while playing word games when doing chores; how to count by rearranging her kitchen pantry; and how to read by leafing through magazines and story books of great interest to me.
We finger-painted, skipped rope, played Old Maids and otherwise learned, played, laughed and chatted our way through my first grade home schooling.
Whooping cough is highly contagious and sometimes fatal. I was quarantined to our apartment for the duration of the disease.
Which meant my family had to be very careful about contact with me.
My dinnerware, drinking glasses and cutlery were all sterilised with boiling water after every use and kept separate.
My clothes and handkerchiefs were washed in boiling water and hung out separately.
My older sister couldn’t bring her friends home for visits.
And nor could my parents have their friends come for visits.
My whooping cough turned our apartment into a quarantine station.
But I wasn’t aware of that until later in my life, when reflecting on the experience.
I was never made to feel like a pariah at home. Not even my older sister tried to put that one over on me.
During school time at home, my mother and I conferred while doing lessons. When I finished a test, we would check the results together and discuss what I did that was right. And what I needed to do to correct what was wrong.
I thought this was how ‘big school’ was too.
Under my mother’s fine tutelage, I passed the first grade.
My entry into the second grade held none of the drama of the first grade. I was quite civil and was trusted to walk to school with my big sister.
My second grade teacher, whose name I cannot remember, was Attila the Hun.
In her eyes, I could do nothing right. And each infraction of her rules carried its own form of punishment.
I had no concept of NOT laughing out loud at funny things.
I certainly didn’t know that my opinion wasn’t sought while she was teaching a lesson.
And worst of all, I couldn’t grasp the concept of not conferring with the boy in front of me while doing a lesson.
In my 6 year old mind’s logic, if it was all right to confer at home with my mother, it must be all right to do it at school.
In fact, the above got me into more trouble than anything else.
My conferring with a classmate had me accused of cheating, so Attila the Hun moved my desk away from all the other students, into an empty corner of the cavernously large school room.
When the Superintendent of Schools visited one day, my teacher was asked why I was sitting in the corner.
Loud and clear, Attila told the Superintendent I was a cheater and had to be isolated from the rest of the class.
My intolerance for her was on a slow burn.
And flared into a roaring fire over a personal issue.
While being home schooled, my parents had to buy my school books.
If I had attended school, the books would have been free, on loan. Which means they were returned to the school at the end of each year. There was no permanent ownership of the books. Purchasing my books meant I got to keep them.
One of the books I owned was the first grade reader Fun With Dick & Jane. Which I brought to school one day, for reasons I don’t remember.
Every morning we had a short recess for nap time. I always found putting my head down on a hard desk the least comfortable way to get forty winks.
Attila found me reading my book during the nap time. I was supposed to be napping, not reading, she shrieked at me.
And she snatched my book out of my hands and smacked me across the face with it. Then scolded me for having a first grade reader in a second grade class.
And threw my book into her rubbish bin.
I was infuriated at being hit by her and even more enraged by her throwing away a book that I owned.
I leapt out from behind my desk and ran to the rubbish bin to recover my book. She pushed me away from the rubbish bin.
A scuffle ensued.
But I rescued my book, pushed her out of my way and did what any self respecting 6 year old would do.
Went into the cloak room, put on my hat, coat and gloves, and ran away from school. Clutching my book tightly to my chest.
As fast as I could, I ran across 2nd Avenue and took refuge in St Stephen’s Church, across the street from our apartment building.
But my flight was noticed by the New York City traffic policeman on duty at 2nd Avenue.
The school rang my mother, who rang my father, who came home from work to look for me. With the help of New York City’s finest, I was found sobbing my eyes out in a corner of the church, crouching underneath a pew.
After my parents consulted with the school principal, it was decided to keep me home for the rest of the day.
And my father, who was once the Amateur Welterweight Boxing Champion of New York City, and well connected with the Mayor of New York City, made a less than veiled threat to the school as to what would happen to any teacher at PS 190 who touched either one of his daughters ever again.
My return to Attila the Hun’s second grade classroom became a war of wills. Her ongoing personal abuse of me was an unconscionable use of her power of revenge backed up by her position of authority.
In return, I became an expert at running away from school.
My parents spent almost as much time in the principal’s office as I did in the classroom.
Their reaction to the frequent phone calls that Carol was missing went from extreme alarm, to mild alarm, to, lets not worry, she has to come home some time.
I did pass the second grade. Perhaps because no one wanted me back for a repeat performance.
And I was never accused of being a truant. Because I did show up for school every day. I just didn’t spend all of every day at school.
What’s the explanation for my rebellious behaviour at so young an age as 6 years old?
Perhaps it’s a case of when your dad’s sperm unites with your mother’s egg and all the spaghetti is wired together, some character traits are wired in harder than others.
I’m definitely hard wired to not tolerate personal abuse. From anyone. And towards anyone.
It’s not always easy living with this trait. But it does make for a strong social conscience.
Take care,
CAROL
Carol Jones
Director
Interface Pty Ltd
Ilford NSW 2850 Australia
Designers of The Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover
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