Yes, somehow I survived my childhood. We can probably all say that to some extent. But third, fourth and fifth grade were hard. Third grade started in Tennessee and finished in New Hampshire. My parents then decided the public school system in New Hampshire wasn’t where they wanted their children educated. So, in fourth grade I got moved to Calvary Christian School. Talk about another dramatic change. I wrote in my last post about my teachers that I left third grade seriously questioning my future career choice as a teacher. By the end of fourth grade, that coffin had been nailed shut. I would not grow up to be a teacher. Not after Miss Farrington.
When I first met Miss Farrington I thought I was in the “good” fourth grade class of the two at Calvary Christian. Perhaps because Mrs. Perry was older and Miss Farrington seemed so young. Looking back, I don’t know that she was. Oh, she was certainly younger than Mrs. Perry who was in her 50s if not 60s. But I’m now guessing Miss Farrington had to be in her 30s. Not really young – just unmarried.
Now I was not of the age that I cared if my teachers were married or not. I didn’t think much about my teachers outside of the classroom. I didn’t think about their husbands or kids. Hobbies or vacations. Likes or dislikes. They were teachers – not people. They belonged in their classroom and if I happened to run into one in the grocery store it was very wrong. Looking back, though, and having been single well into my thirties…my fellow students and I probably didn’t care if anything about Miss Farrington’s marital status but I have a feeling she did. Especially as she was the only unmarried teacher in the whole elementary school. I think she felt she had something to prove. And her students got the brunt of it.
Miss Farrington was about as short as Mrs. Cassidy. She was also half as wide as she was tall. She always dressed very carefully in neat tops and long skirts or jumpers with flats and far too much makeup. She was not shy about saying anything, and she handed out discipline almost too easily. I felt picked on quite often, but I’m not sure I was any more or less picked on than any of the other students. In a class of only fourteen kids, not one of us could fly under the radar. The classroom was small – barely large enough for our desks, her desk, and room for us to work at the chalkboard. In a room that congested, there was almost nothing Miss Farrington didn’t know about. Which made her omissions almost as obvious as her commissions.
Miss Farrington was the teacher who when you asked, “Can I go to the bathroom?” she immediately responded, “I don’t know – can you?” I wasn’t the only one who was constantly correcting her verbs and came to hate the word may. One of the worse sins you could commit was to forget something, whether it was how to spell a word or forgetting your snow pants on a snowy day. The first because she hated imperfection. The latter because you weren’t allowed to be in outside in the snow without snow pants so you disrupted her half hour of quiet when we were all supposed to outside with another teacher on recess duty. But the very worsething a student could do was have extracurricularactivities during the school day. In fourth grade that meant music practice. Every single one of us was highly encouraged to try an instrument for band that year. At least ten out of the fourteen of us did so. And while full band practice happened during recess one day every other week, specific music practice happened just as lunch period was coming to an end and ran into reading class. I had flute practice with the other flautists every other Monday. We would all miss most of reading class, and Miss Farrington would make us stay in from recess until our reading work was complete. I’m not sure if we wanted out to recess or we wanted to get out from under her glowering brow. Whichever it was, we’d rush…we’d make mistakes…and we’d be seriously lectured in front of the rest of the class later. I suppose it should be a comfort that I wasn’t the only one who suffered through this. Any of us who played an instrument and had to be at practice were targets. It didn’t make me feel any better, though.
The best of teachers encourage a love of learning in their students. Thanks to Miss Farrington, to this day I abhor penmanship. That’s not to say I don’t believe one’s writing should be neat and legible. I’ve gotten compliments that mine is, but that’s because I use to scribble stories for hours a day which eventually turned into well practiced handwriting. But I find myself not being very particular about the way my kids write their letters. Oh, I want neatness. And I should be able to read each letter. But I don’t care if they start at the top or the bottom. I’m not even particular about their letters looking exactly as they are printed in the book. In third grade, I learned cursive. In fourth grade, I learned that whichever curriculum Calvary Christian used (Bob Jones?), it dictated several cursive letters be written differently than I had learned them. I very politely approached Miss Farrington at her desk and asked if I needed to change my cursive so it was like the book or I could continue writing them as I had learned. She announced the question to the whole class and then proceeded to inform us that I had learned my letters wrongly and the way they did them was the right way. I needed to change. And I did. But after fourth grade, I never wrote those letters that way again. I still don’t.
But by and large the number one thing that made me decide never to be a teacher was Miss Farrington’s response to my being from the South. I was not the only little girl in her class from Tennessee. Annie, too, suffered for the sake of our heritage. First in how we say the word “aunt”. We say “ant”. Up in New England they say “auhnt”. Well, “aunt” was a spelling word in fourth grade. And when going through our words on a Monday morning, Miss Farrington had Kyle read that word. “Auhnt,” said Kyle. “Very good,” Miss Farrington nodded. “Annie, would you read that word?” “Ant,” Annie pronounced. “Yes,” Miss Farrington said. “Where Annie and Melissa are from, that is what they say. But I would not like to be called the name of an insect.” I almost cried.
Even worse would come later when we studied the War of Northern Aggression in history. Of course, it was not called that in our history book. It was properly termed “Civil War” but it felt like the War of Northern Aggression. For nearly two weeks, Annie and I were mocked by several of the other kids as being “Confederates” and “losers”. In a classroom as small as hers where nothing escaped her, I know Miss Farrington knew. But she never said anything. Not a word. To me, her silence meant she agreed.
I was glad when fourth grade was over. And even happier when my parents told us they were going to homeschool us. I didn’t know what that meant, but I did know it meant I wouldn’t have to be in the same building as Miss Farrington. Or in a classroom with a Bruno. It sounded great to me!
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