Della Street
I walked to school in the neighborhood where I grew up. In First Grade, I had to find Mrs. Thompson’s classroom. I was told to find the room with the apple on the door. They all had apples on the door. I picked an apple and went in.
A beautiful young teacher with dark hair who looked like Della Street checked my name on the roster, and directed me to a classroom up the hall. When I found my First Grade teacher, she was an older woman with white hair.
In Second Grade, I had Della Street. I don’t remember much about that year, other than that. By Third Grade, I was too talkative and was corrected one morning by my teacher, Mrs. Mitchell. She was afraid my shenanigans would affect my grades.
By age nine in Fourth Grade, I was becoming close friends with people in my class. My teacher said I was constantly talking and playing. By Fifth Grade, I was becoming friends with my teachers. I would stay after class to help clean up the classroom.
The school building was made of brick but was without air-conditioning. When the temperature rose above 100 degrees inside, we opened the windows. This was in the 1970s.
My Sixth Grade teacher encouraged me to enter a Spelling Bee contest. I had to memorize a page-long essay about freedom, and recite it in the auditorium. The person with the best presentation won a prize, and I won.
If you look at my Elementary School photos, I am very pretty in First Grade. In Second Grade, I am missing my two front teeth. In Third Grade, I am slightly heavy. In Fourth Grade, I’m a little lop-sided. In Fifth Grade, I’ve spent too much time in my brother’s room looking at Jimi Hindrix posters, and am Tomboyish and tangled.
I am now an awkward 11 years old. My teeth aren’t quite grown in. I’m playing softball constantly. I’ve had two sets of braces to correct buck teeth.
I could keep going –musicals, sport events, whether my High School teachers were mean or nice, young or old, but I realize now there was ever only one teacher — and that was always Della Street.
marchsparrows 