Language Investigation #2: School, Language, and Friendship

Reading and writing became my struggle for approval and acceptance during my academic years. The struggles arose from boredom and distraction in class and from argument and loss at home and fused together like two cursive letters hooked by monkey tails.

The summer before kindergarten my grandma suffered a stroke; a year later my parents divorced. I can barely remember my Grandma Dorothy’s voice, except that her pitch was low and her tone was stern. After her stroke, I mostly heard a grunt when she was hoisted from wheelchair to toilet seat. While dangling my legs from her bed in the nursing home, I doodled in a variety of kindergarten prep workbooks--the ones that had the fancy stickers inside--or copied letters onto a tablet with ruled lines eight times the width of collage ruled notebook paper.

I credit my mother--the savior to her speechless mother-in-law--for putting aside her life to care for me and place chubby Crayolas in my doll size hands. I credit her for being strong and putting aside her own ambitions to serve her immigrant parents and her alcoholic husband. Mom brought Sesame Street into the living room, Dr. Seuss into my playroom, and maintained safety in our home.

My mother’s parents came to Wisconsin from Germany in the 1950s to start a barbershop. As young entrepreneurs and witnesses to WWII, my grandparents struggled financially and psychologically. Often, their children were subject to their sarcasm and emotional neglect. I remember my grandfather’s cruel humor as he imitated Quasimodo and my grandmother’s cold demeanor--she taught me how to count to ten in German and the sensation of a wooden spoon on one‘s bottom. My mother grew up able to understand spoken German but never how to speak it. Her parents disowned her when she left my father--in any language, that was their way of saying they disapproved of her choices.

Besides the silent language of my grandparents’, I was exposed to the common language of laborers. My father, a backhoe operator, was more interested in sports, socializing, and drinking than academics. Although he was held back in Catholic grade school, he often boasted his State championship in doubles tennis during high school. My step-father Dave, now a gifted wood worker, had a similar Catholic school upbringing, except his mother happened to be both his teacher and principal at St. Al’s. During Dave’s academic career, he struggled with dyslexia and neglect--he was the second youngest of eight children. Dave has always had a colorful vocabulary; in fact, I contribute my knowledge of all swear words known to man to Dave--not to the eighth graders who sat in the back of the bus. Both my father and Dave were children of alcoholics.

In grade school, my background filtered into my relationship with language. One of the first things we learned was the D'Nealian alphabet, displayed on the walls of my classrooms through 3rd grade. Luckily Mom had prepared me for the stringent art of handwriting. Memorizing addition and subtraction facts was a breeze, too, and I soon became champion of Around the World, challenging my peers one desk at a time. Spelling was a cinch, too--I beat out a good friend for the 3rd grade bee ribbon. At that point, memorizing stuff was a snap, but there were some areas of my brain where the dendrites weren’t making any connections.

For instance, I often bombed the listening section of the standardized tests, and my comprehension skills for science and social studies were poor. I could read well and enjoyed writing and performing, but when asked what I had just read, my mind was tabula rasa. My test anxiety grew--my eyes wandered to other desks; the clock’s turning hands pulsated in my ears. And when engaged in huge group activities, I completely shut down. My lack of participation often landed me a seat out in the hall, under the coat racks. In addition, the new Macintosh computers in the library terrified me with their glowing green screens. While my peers delighted in the opportunity to use them at school, I would quietly exit the lab and vanish to the stacks in search of Bunnicula.

Then one day, things started to change.

A new teacher named Ms. Weston was hired at Wheatland Center. She was urban, progressive, and added a little spice to our little country school. For a few hours a week, some of us met in her office. We performed projects which included creating our own fun parks and learning the ancient technique of making and using chocolate. Ms Weston left and was later replaced by Ms. Turk, who was just as innovative. With Ms. Turk, we explored the Indian art of puppet making and performances behind a silk screen. By junior high, I got to coach a group of young students in the production of Goldilocks Goes To Trial. By sixth grade, I developed a love of reading and writing. I would stay up super late scripting a play or writing a short story for class. On weekends, I would hide away with copies of the Baby Sitters Club series or horror novels by R.L. Stine and V.C. Andrews.

Our sixth grade teachers were pretty awesome, too. Mrs. Foat and Mrs. Schultz helped us learn about the Renaissance age by creating our own fair, complete with costumes, food, and entertainment, while Mr. Buddy made science fun by incorporating Skip-It tournaments and Pogo Ball competitions at recess to earn money for saving the Rain Forest. I remember a real sense of camaraderie amongst my classmates. We came together to write letters to troops in the Gulf War, and we gathered on the playground in a circle to support a fellow student who was contemplating suicide.

It was difficult separating from grade school pals who didn’t live in my district when it came time for high school (consequently, I have recently connected with one of my best grade school friends on Face book--I’ve even been invited to her wedding). I had to make many new friends in a freshman class several times larger than my eighth grade class. In this environment, my test anxiety heightened and competition increased. I spent fall of freshman year on the cheer leading squad, hoping to meet some new friends, but I felt even more isolated amidst my squad which was constantly fighting.

English class freshman year really cemented my academic career. Not only did I meet my best friends (who I have kept to this day) through our English teacher’s encouragement to join Forensics, but our team won Gold at State for the Group Interpretation of The Three Faces of Eve. Shortly after, I gained the confidence to work on the school newspaper, join the video club, and work part time at the Community Library. Although I struggled with biology labs and solving geometric proofs, I had discovered the language of literature and friendship. These friends would later become like family, filling in the lost and silent voices of blood relatives. Ironically, many of these friends are now respected members of their teaching communities and are a tremendous encouragement to me as I pursue a teaching degree.