PhilYouIn.com

I am a product of the NYC Board of Education. But I’m okay.

My father died when I was in elementary school. I was in the second grade.

I returned to school in mid-December, after having stayed at home for a week. My classmates basically ignored me for a few days, which was behavior normally reserved for the new kid in class. Or lepers. Then they proceeded to make fun of me, because I did not have a father.

Yup. You read that right.

These were the days before ‘bullying’ was recognized as something for teachers to be on the lookout out for, before therapy was available for children who may have experienced a traumatic event.

If you were unlucky enough to be a child, you just had to figure out how to sink or swim on your own.

And it was not easy.

In May, our teacher, Mrs. Levine, told us we were going to spend the afternoon making greeting cards for our moms. For Mother’s Day. You remember: construction paper, crayons, scissors, I Love You Mom! Thanks for Giving Birth To Me! blah blah blah. Which is when a tiny seed of discomfort began to grow in my mind. What was going to happen when Father’s Day came around?

Surely, Mrs. Levine would have a plan. A professional educator, responsible for the mental and physical well-being of 30 kids, would know how to handle things. Or so I hoped.

Five weeks later, when Father’s Day was looming just three days away, I found out that there was no plan. Apparently she did not give my situation so much as a passing thought. Just handed out the construction paper and told us to make the dumb cards for our dads. (Apparently, exhibiting zero common sense or compassion was not considered a red flag in the teacher hiring process in those days. Mentally abusing a child, however, would do just fine.)

Twenty nine heads turned to look at me. They did not want to miss a minute of my misery.

These were my ‘friends’ from kindergarten through sixth grade.

I just sat at my desk wishing it was July, while everyone else gleefully began to fold, cut and color. I would have liked to jump out the window to make my escape, but it wasn’t open wide enough. And try as I might, squeezing my eyes tightly closed would not magically transport me home.

So, I just sat there as Mrs. Levine made her rounds. Soon, she reached my desk.

Great.

“Why aren’t you getting your work done, Philip?!” she demanded.

“Uhhm,” I fumbled. “I can’t. My father died.” (News flash.)

“Well, then, make the card for an uncle!” she said, actually getting annoyed.

“But I don’t have an uncle,” I responded, pushing my luck.

“Then make it for your brother!” she said, raising her voice as she stormed away.

Why didn’t I think of that?! I’ll make a Father’s Day card for my 13 year old brother. Great idea.

And that’s when I finally snapped. I jumped up, started screaming and threw my chair across the room. Then I grabbed Mrs. Levine by the hair and…

Not really.

She just walked away.

And I made the card.

‘Dear Daddy,

I hope you have a great Father’s Day. You’re a great dad.

Love, Philip

Below, I drew stick figures, smiling and holding hands.

And it’s a good thing I did, because Mrs. Levine actually circled back to check on me. And she was not pleased with my art work.

None of my classmates spoke to me when the day finally, gratefully ended. We were marched, as was the norm, in a double line down the staircase to our waiting mothers.

I may have only been eight years old, but I realized my Mom had things to deal with that were a lot more important than what I was going through. From that year on, I never told her anything that had even a slim chance of upsetting her. (Plus, if she saw my ‘greeting’ card, she would have thought I had gone completely off the rails.)

Luckily, she was waiting for me way down the block, as she usually did. So I had time to dispose of the evidence.

Mrs. Levine taught me a great lesson that day: to hate school. To never trust a teacher. To keep quiet and just make it to the next the day.

A lesson that would serve me quite well in elementary school.

Until the fourth grade, anyway…

(To be continued!)