B+ Story

A TEACHER’S WRATH: HOW I CAME TO RESPECT THE WRITTEN WORD, AND OTHER STORIES

By Ian O’Brien

I acknowledge the fact that, as a human being, my opinions are not wholly my own. From an early age, I have absorbed, and admittedly regurgitated, the opinions of others. In the days of my youth, several people have been instrumental in the formation of my most basic of opinions, my undying live for books and my eternal tolerance of other persons.

The earliest memories of my father are of him reading. He read at the dinner table, on the couch, before his nap, before his favorite TV show, when I got home from school, all the time. There is always a book in his hand or within easy reach. He and my mom took me to the local library often and I would wander between the musty shelves just looking at the spines and trying to decide which to read next. If I picked out something that my dad thought was too hard for me he always had a suggestion for a substitute, and he promised to remember the books I had chosen for a later date. My dad has an immense collection of books that he lets me borrow from: books that he had read and is always happy to discuss them with me. He told me recently that “By keeping a large collection of books at home and constantly browsing the local library, I am continuing the legacy that my father shared with me”. At my grandparents house, in which I lived for several years, my grandfather has two full rooms where the walls are completely covered with books. Often I would take my action figures and play on the shelves; my imagination sparked by the colorful spines of those books. Many an imaginary battle was fought in those rooms and I can remember my grandfather chuckling quietly at my sound effects.

The single most defining moment where I learned, above all else, to respect books, happened in kindergarten. My teacher Mrs. Hillflicker, a charming woman of blonde hair and kind countenance, had passed out the day’s book, In a Dark Dark House. My class was split into groups of four and each group sat around a circular table. Each child had a book in front of them. Mrs. Hillflicker stepped out for a minute to go to the bathroom. The table across from mine became bored and started to playing with the books. Not playing as in making hats or planes or houses with them, oh no that would have been fine; this group got it into their heads to start an air hockey game with the books! They started passing them across the table, sliding them faster and faster. Then a boy, I do not remember his name, got bored of that potentially disastrous game and threw the book he had at another table. Chaos ensued. Soon all the other tables were gleefully entering the melee. Books were flying everywhere. My table took refuge below our table and grabbed what books we could to save them. A small knot of horror grew in my stomach. Then, we all heard a loud gasp, a sharp intake of breath that was to signal the end of playtime for these children for weeks. Mrs. Hilflicker stood in the doorway to our classroom, her hand at her throat and a comic expression of surprise on her face. I would have laughed had I been older. Then her face got red, very red, and she unleashed a torrent of tongue lashings that I have never heard the equal. the beauty was, she never swore. She completely humiliated the bad children, without foul language. I myself felt shamed even though I had not participated in the blasphemy of book throwing. To this day I can still hear her chastising the class whenever a book is mishandled.

Like tolerance of books, a tolerance of others has been instilled in me by my parents. I do not remember any time that they have ever honestly made a racist remark. They were quick to admonish me if I was too hasty with my judgment of anyone. My dad told me where his tolerance came from, “I learned tolerance of other people first by working at camps for many years as a teen and young adult. Meeting thousands of campers and working with hundreds of different people forces you to look for the underlying similarities in all of them. The most profound lesson of tolerance came from the rooms of AA. All of us, rich or poor, regardless of race or sex were there for the same thing. We all needed each other to stay sober. We all had been humbled, beaten and defeated by something beyond our control. We were all the same on the inside; we were forced to see beyond the outside. I have tried to teach my children to look into others, to see that we all have similar needs and not get stuck on outside appearances.” My mom, also a recovering alcoholic said essentially the same thing. The most concrete example of what has shaped my tolerance comes from my grandmother. She is a small, hearty woman; quick to laugh, and quick to bake a pie. While living with her when my family was between homes, we went to the store together to gather ingredients for one of her delicious apple pies. We went along joking and laughing. I always had a question about everything and everything provoked a question. We were passing down the bread aisle when a black man entered the aisle from the other end. Now this in itself was not a rare occurrence, but I had heard in school that day from on of my friends that black people smelled really bad; his father had told him so. So, I held my breath as we walked by. My grandmother noticed the pause in my endless stream of questions and the slight bluish tinge to my face. Naturally she was curious. When I let out my breath and greedily sucked in more air, she asked me why I held my breath. I told her of the school day and my slightly rebellious stomach and that I didn’t want to chance smelling the black man. She laughed long and loud, we elicited more that a few looks, and I though she was about to burst, “E” she said (she called me E for short), “People do not smell based on the color of their skin, you shouldn’t lump everyone in a category, take each as a separate part.” I had not fully realized the meaning of the words until later, but the way she said them made them stick with me.

As a human sponge, I have absorbed many opinions in my lifetime; my love of books from my father, and my fear of damaging them from my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hilflicker. I have learned tolerance at my mothers knee and from the laughter of my kindly grandmother.