First grade teacher: Mrs. Brown.
Pretty. Big brown eyes and a beehive of rich brown hair. Wore pretty clothes. A lot younger than Mrs. Erwin, who'd taught kindergarten.
She was my first crush--oh, wait, that was Davy Jones.
Very little of that school year remains in the memory vault, but anyone who has had the demon anxiety stabbing its little fork into one's psyche as I so regularly did (until Effexor saved me--but that's another episode) will relate to the horror of this memory and the damage it must have inflicted on my already neurotic little six-year-old soul.
Mrs. Brown sat with the class during lunch, and each day a different student would be selected for the honor of sitting right beside her! She always sat on the end, and I'm sure this was to relieve her of the duty of sitting between two students--but we didn't think like that then. We were certain she was as happy to sit with us through lunch as we were with her.
On that day, I had been selected--at last, and to my immense joy--as the Chosen One. All morning I envisioned sitting next to Mrs. Brown and having the most wonderful conversation with her--or whatever six-year-olds want when sitting next to a beloved teacher. My memory isn't quite that good, but I have to think I'd be trying to come up with stuff to say.
Of course, I could think of nothing to say. Yes, even six-year-olds can be shy, and this memory tells me I'd already acquired that trait in spades by then. But I was holding my own until . . . I took a big bite of my apple and . . . . Can you guess?
The juice sprayed ALL OVER Mrs. Brown's pretty face. She jumped and cried "Oh!" and grabbed her napkin, then dabbed at her pancake makeup.
I don't remember if anyone saw it, or teased me about it, or laughed--all I remember is that awful moment when I sprayed Mrs. Brown, the terrible drop I felt inside, the despair. I don't think I said another word the entire time except maybe "Sorry," if I knew enough to say that. My humiliation was as complete as its frequent repetition in later years under this or that scenario. I simply was not fit for society. I was like the dentist elf in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, a misfit--but I wasn't gay, which that elf certainly was--not that there's anything wrong with that! (Thanks, Seinfeld.) But in the 60's, no elf could be gay, so they made him a wanna-be dentist. No, I wasn't gay, but I surely belonged on the island of misfit girls. Queer in my own way.
That year, I'd fallen madly in love not only with my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Brown, but also with the Herman's Hermits tune, "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter." The song was in heavy rotation on the local Top 40's radio station, and I'd sit by the Hi-Fi's speaker just waiting for those familiar plunking strings to begin again the most heart-wrenching tale of a heartbroken young man sung in the most heart-throbbing voice. Now, I knew nothing of the Herman's Hermits at the time, so it wasn't a crush thing there. The magic, the thing that put that song over the top, of course, was that it was directed to Mrs. Brown.
Nevertheless, the song itself and the manner of its being sung--that heavy accent I somehow knew was not of the highest caliber of British English somehow added to the pathos I drank up every time the song came on. Oh, I thought, how could any girl do something like this to a boy who loves her so much? I will never, never, never hurt a boy like that.
Now I recognize the song as stalking by proxy, ha. And as a woman who was stalked by proxy--an ex called my two best friends and my sister and asked them to help me "come to my senses"--it's not such a cool thing. Yet I still get a lump in my throat when I play the song, which I've been doing incessantly on YouTube lately, watching an adorable young Peter Noone sweetly sing this tune, which apparently was one his father would sing at home. The accent is exaggerated Manchester, Noone's hometown, similar to how the Beatles would often play up their Liverpool accents in their songs, much to the annoyance of John's Aunt, according to the Joe Klein biography of John Lennon.
If you want to refresh yourself on an unforgettable song (for some of us, anyway), here is a video from 1965: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv8k0VI9tBc. No, that's not Justin Bieber in black and white--that's Peter Noone of the Herman's Hermits, and what a doll baby he was!
The story doesn't end with my excrutiating apple spray, however. Mrs. Brown, I believe to this day, was an extraordinary teacher. I'm sure she realized my heart had been broken, and she treated me kindly throughout the year, though I never fully recovered from that horrible moment--it played over and over again in my head. On the last day of first grade, Mrs. Brown asked me if I had time to stay after class and help clean up the classroom a little bit.
I know I flushed with pride and just plain old joy. Throughout elementary school, I walked to school and back every day--a good mile and a quarter, barefoot in snow [ha--not quite]. Those long walks twice a day were very good for me. Wonderful "scope for the imagination," as Anne of Green Gables would say.
Another kid joined us, though he or she hadn't been asked. We cleaned the blackboard and then the other kid left. Mrs. Brown handed me a dust cloth and asked me to dust the cubbies. All the cubbyholes had been emptied by students free for the summer, of course--but wait! This one had a 45 in it!
"Mrs. Brown!" I cried out. "Someone left a record here!"
I read the label. "Oh, my gosh! It's 'Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter'! This is my favorite song! Did I ever tell you how much I love this song?"
I'm sure I'd told her at least 45 times by then.
Now, here's perhaps the funniest part of the whole story: It dawned on me ONLY a couple of years ago that Mrs. Brown had planted that 45 in that cubbyhole, and that was why she'd asked me to stay after school. She'd wanted me to find that record, and she'd wanted me to have it. That she'd cared that much about me was not something that entered my mind then or in the years after. But now I feel fairly sure that Mrs. Brown remembered the day of the apple and wanted me to know I was still special to her even if I had sprayed her pretty face with apple juice!
What a concept! I'd just never questioned my belief that day--some hapless kid had left the most wonderful record in the world behind, and by some miracle Mrs. Brown said I could have it.
"But what if they come back?" I couldn't help but ask. I knew I would surely be back for it if it were mine.
"No, no, I'm sure it's fine. You just keep it, Mary Dell."
Of course! She'd never have let me take it if it had truly been left by another kid. I'd always thought that a little odd, but still didn't have the capacity to believe she'd cared for me that much!
I listened to that song on my record player every night before bed, over and over and over and over--it replaced my singing myself to sleep and now was the only way I could settle down and slip into sleep. My crush on Mrs. Brown faded into magical summer and second grade--and a NOT favorite teacher--I remember I had to stand in the corner once--but she also did something very special for me I'll have to tell in another episode. Then third grade, then fourth--and another teacher with whom I'd fall madly in love--and more in my future, teachers who have made such a difference in my life. Each one deserves a song of praise, and here's the title for the first:
Mrs. Brown, You Were a Lovely First Grade Teacher!
Pretty. Big brown eyes and a beehive of rich brown hair. Wore pretty clothes. A lot younger than Mrs. Erwin, who'd taught kindergarten.
She was my first crush--oh, wait, that was Davy Jones.
Very little of that school year remains in the memory vault, but anyone who has had the demon anxiety stabbing its little fork into one's psyche as I so regularly did (until Effexor saved me--but that's another episode) will relate to the horror of this memory and the damage it must have inflicted on my already neurotic little six-year-old soul.
Mrs. Brown sat with the class during lunch, and each day a different student would be selected for the honor of sitting right beside her! She always sat on the end, and I'm sure this was to relieve her of the duty of sitting between two students--but we didn't think like that then. We were certain she was as happy to sit with us through lunch as we were with her.
On that day, I had been selected--at last, and to my immense joy--as the Chosen One. All morning I envisioned sitting next to Mrs. Brown and having the most wonderful conversation with her--or whatever six-year-olds want when sitting next to a beloved teacher. My memory isn't quite that good, but I have to think I'd be trying to come up with stuff to say.
Of course, I could think of nothing to say. Yes, even six-year-olds can be shy, and this memory tells me I'd already acquired that trait in spades by then. But I was holding my own until . . . I took a big bite of my apple and . . . . Can you guess?
The juice sprayed ALL OVER Mrs. Brown's pretty face. She jumped and cried "Oh!" and grabbed her napkin, then dabbed at her pancake makeup.
I don't remember if anyone saw it, or teased me about it, or laughed--all I remember is that awful moment when I sprayed Mrs. Brown, the terrible drop I felt inside, the despair. I don't think I said another word the entire time except maybe "Sorry," if I knew enough to say that. My humiliation was as complete as its frequent repetition in later years under this or that scenario. I simply was not fit for society. I was like the dentist elf in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, a misfit--but I wasn't gay, which that elf certainly was--not that there's anything wrong with that! (Thanks, Seinfeld.) But in the 60's, no elf could be gay, so they made him a wanna-be dentist. No, I wasn't gay, but I surely belonged on the island of misfit girls. Queer in my own way.
That year, I'd fallen madly in love not only with my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Brown, but also with the Herman's Hermits tune, "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter." The song was in heavy rotation on the local Top 40's radio station, and I'd sit by the Hi-Fi's speaker just waiting for those familiar plunking strings to begin again the most heart-wrenching tale of a heartbroken young man sung in the most heart-throbbing voice. Now, I knew nothing of the Herman's Hermits at the time, so it wasn't a crush thing there. The magic, the thing that put that song over the top, of course, was that it was directed to Mrs. Brown.
Nevertheless, the song itself and the manner of its being sung--that heavy accent I somehow knew was not of the highest caliber of British English somehow added to the pathos I drank up every time the song came on. Oh, I thought, how could any girl do something like this to a boy who loves her so much? I will never, never, never hurt a boy like that.
Now I recognize the song as stalking by proxy, ha. And as a woman who was stalked by proxy--an ex called my two best friends and my sister and asked them to help me "come to my senses"--it's not such a cool thing. Yet I still get a lump in my throat when I play the song, which I've been doing incessantly on YouTube lately, watching an adorable young Peter Noone sweetly sing this tune, which apparently was one his father would sing at home. The accent is exaggerated Manchester, Noone's hometown, similar to how the Beatles would often play up their Liverpool accents in their songs, much to the annoyance of John's Aunt, according to the Joe Klein biography of John Lennon.
The story doesn't end with my excrutiating apple spray, however. Mrs. Brown, I believe to this day, was an extraordinary teacher. I'm sure she realized my heart had been broken, and she treated me kindly throughout the year, though I never fully recovered from that horrible moment--it played over and over again in my head. On the last day of first grade, Mrs. Brown asked me if I had time to stay after class and help clean up the classroom a little bit.
I know I flushed with pride and just plain old joy. Throughout elementary school, I walked to school and back every day--a good mile and a quarter, barefoot in snow [ha--not quite]. Those long walks twice a day were very good for me. Wonderful "scope for the imagination," as Anne of Green Gables would say.
Another kid joined us, though he or she hadn't been asked. We cleaned the blackboard and then the other kid left. Mrs. Brown handed me a dust cloth and asked me to dust the cubbies. All the cubbyholes had been emptied by students free for the summer, of course--but wait! This one had a 45 in it!
"Mrs. Brown!" I cried out. "Someone left a record here!"
I read the label. "Oh, my gosh! It's 'Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter'! This is my favorite song! Did I ever tell you how much I love this song?"
I'm sure I'd told her at least 45 times by then.
Now, here's perhaps the funniest part of the whole story: It dawned on me ONLY a couple of years ago that Mrs. Brown had planted that 45 in that cubbyhole, and that was why she'd asked me to stay after school. She'd wanted me to find that record, and she'd wanted me to have it. That she'd cared that much about me was not something that entered my mind then or in the years after. But now I feel fairly sure that Mrs. Brown remembered the day of the apple and wanted me to know I was still special to her even if I had sprayed her pretty face with apple juice!
What a concept! I'd just never questioned my belief that day--some hapless kid had left the most wonderful record in the world behind, and by some miracle Mrs. Brown said I could have it.
"But what if they come back?" I couldn't help but ask. I knew I would surely be back for it if it were mine.
"No, no, I'm sure it's fine. You just keep it, Mary Dell."
Of course! She'd never have let me take it if it had truly been left by another kid. I'd always thought that a little odd, but still didn't have the capacity to believe she'd cared for me that much!
I listened to that song on my record player every night before bed, over and over and over and over--it replaced my singing myself to sleep and now was the only way I could settle down and slip into sleep. My crush on Mrs. Brown faded into magical summer and second grade--and a NOT favorite teacher--I remember I had to stand in the corner once--but she also did something very special for me I'll have to tell in another episode. Then third grade, then fourth--and another teacher with whom I'd fall madly in love--and more in my future, teachers who have made such a difference in my life. Each one deserves a song of praise, and here's the title for the first:
Mrs. Brown, You Were a Lovely First Grade Teacher!
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