The Kingdom of Story: Filling in the Blanks Years 5-10

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As a child, my favorite subject was history and/or English, whichever my grade was better in at that moment.

I thought my teachers were variable. I viewed them all from my child perspective with affection, even the ones that were jerks because they had screwed up and suspicious ideas about my teacher-parents. I knew it, but I was convinced if they just knew me they’d get past it.  The anger came later, as an adult.

My best friend was more-or-less a girl named Deanna; the friendship was largely based on the similarity of our names. I was quickly abandoned by her for people that lived closer and who were not as “embarrassing” to her.

I liked to draw – I would create characters from the numbers on my math sheet, and would draw characters in margins in my spelling tests. It became enough of an issue that one teacher struck a deal with me about keeping the sketches in the margins.

My favorite teacher was Mrs. Cross. She was the most strict, but also the most compassionate – and she was never a paranoiac freak about my parents being teachers. She also never once assumed that my being fat somehow meant I was stupid.

I never really hated any of my teachers, not while I had them. I came to hold Mrs. Blech, Mrs. Pyle and Mrs. Rastovski in utter contempt because they all copped an attitude that my entire family was somehow inferior to them. Mrs. Pyle particularly made my shit list for suggesting to me as a teenager I didn’t recognize my own damn dog, and implying I was the sort of person who would turn a dog loose and abandon it. All three of them looked down their noses at my family. And then it turned out that Mrs. Blech was related to us somehow.

I was praised in school for my creativity, especially by my art teacher, Mrs. Geimer and my GT teacher, Mrs. Underwood. Most said I was a “good kid” and Mrs. Rastovski was bizarrely concerned I become a “serious student” which I guessed on some vague level was so I could compensate for my fatness – seriously, who the hell cares that a 10-11 year old is a “serious” student?

My parents seemed to feel I was doing fine at school but that my being fat was something I would have to spend my life making up for.

My own feeling was that I liked school, and liked the people I went to school with.  I thought school was super extra important, and it was the center of my universe.

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