The Idea of an Essay, Volume 3

Narrative & Memoir 39 ever so much as step out of line or laugh without permission. If you catch my drift, I hated school and I certainly wasn’t fond of Miss Radin. To be perfectly clear, I wasn’t an unruly child who constantly needed to be reminded of my place, and I was not outspoken, or an eager to disrupt the class with pranks and laughter “class clown” type. No. I was quiet and respectful, but that was completely out of fear. The trust I should have had in Miss Radin was overtaken by shame, which resulted in a bitterness for teachers and the classroom. I felt utterly stupid every time I made a mistake or failed to understand her. For such a lovely little classroomdecorated with sixteen name- bearing desks stacked neatly side-by-side, Lincoln logs and toy train sets, colorful cubby bins and Legos lining the alphabet-pictured walls, a beautiful blackboard with white chalk marks waiting to be erased and the classic pencil cup, apple-bearing teacher’s desk in the far right-hand corner of the room with aromatic plumeria trees among the lush green landscape just beyond the windows, this room felt like a cold, dark prison. One warm Hawaiian morning right before recess Miss Radin verbally administered a spelling test to her class of sixteen, five and six year old, tanned, flip-flop wearing girls and boys. The test had a total of twelve words; a hefty load for us first graders. This was a real, bona-fide test, but I was ready for it. Immediately following the test Miss Radin graded the papers to discover that I was the only student to have spelled every word correctly, and Ace the test. Instead of graciously congratulating me on my spelling and very legible penmanship, and posting my exceptional work on the board for the class to admire (as she had made habit of with perfectly scored papers by various other students), she slowly lowered all four feet and ten inches of herself to my small, six-year-old frame sitting humbly at my desk, to look me square in my eyes. “Hannah, how did you cheat on your spelling test?” she demanded in her shrill, snappy voice. This was not a question of whether or not I cheated. She was certain of her accusation. In her mind, I was guilty as sin. “I didn’t cheat Miss Radin. I know all the words. I practiced them with my mom last night before bed and on our way to school