Why I hate geography: Abuse by a teacher in 4th grade

Roger's story reminded me of what I experienced in 4th grade.

When I was in first through third grade, I went to St. Ann's School in Castle Shannon. I was a rather oblivious little kid, but I was dimly aware it was unusual to be sent to higher grades for certain classes. I didn't mind, though, it was interesting. The kids were bigger, but being a Catholic School, were generally under control and didn't bother me.

I liked it there, but the summer after third grade, my parents bought my aunt's house in Bethel Park. It was a fantastic thing, but it meant I had to change schools. I was going to go to St. Germaine's School in Bethel Park.

Before school started, I was given tests, since the nuns at St. Germaines didn't approve of the teaching methods of those at St. Anne's. I didn't know this, of course. I didn't find this out until much later.

I was put into the slowest classes. They had classes in three levels: slow, normal and fast. In a way, it was rather progressive for 1963. I didn't know I was in the slowest class, I just knew they were boring and the teachers didn't expect much out of me. Much, much later I found out the nun who had graded my test recorded the percentage wrong, not the percentage right.

The worst class, though, was Geography. It wasn't taught by a nun, but by a "lay teacher." I don't remember exactly when it started, but Mrs. Ballard used to make fun of me. In retrospect, it might have been because I was exceedingly naive and in orientation had shared with the school a little song I'd made up myself. I'm sure it was really stupid, but I was just a little kid.  

Whenever you were called on in class you had to stand up to give the answer. You didn't get to choose to answer, you were called on. If you didn't know the answer, you were yelled at. I didn't know many answers because the teacher was mean and I didn't see why I should try to learn something boring for a mean teacher. Like I said, I was naive and young.

Then the abuse started. I was made to stand up and admit I didn't know . Or she would call on me and say, "Not that you'll know the answer, but stand up, Miss Heinecke." When I admited I didn't know (whether I knew it or not, I wasn't going to say the answer). The class laughed when she said, "You don't know much, do you?"

But that wasn't enough ... then she started making fun of my clothes and how I carried my purse.

"While you're standing here, let me ask you something else," she said. "Is that the only dress you own?" (Each Friday we could wear "real clothes" to school. I hated it. I didn't have the pretty dresses the other children had.)

"No," I said, "it's just the one I like the best." The kids laughed louder. I used to wear one particular dress the most because I liked it and because it was comfortable.

"And why," she continued, "do you wear your purse like that?" (I wore it across from my right shoulder to my left hip. So it wouldn't fall off or be grabbed by other kids who also made fun of me.) "Are you afraid someone is going to steal it? What do you have in your purse that's so valuable?" 

I was struck dumb with fear that she would empty my purse out in class. I didn't want anyone to know what I carried. I didn't want them to know what was important to me, to give them more reason to laugh at me. I was relieved when she just said in disgust, "Sit down, Miss Heinecke." The way she said my name, it was a swear word.

I told my mom, but she didn't believe me. When I insisted, she dismissed it saying, "You must have done something to make her angry."

This continued for weeks. During the week, she'd make fun of me for not knowing the answer, and on Fridays, she'd make fun of what I wore, how I laughed, how I stood, just about anything. Every time she'd come up with some new thing, it would give the other kids fodder to torment me. The kids I could take. The teachers I couldn't. I had no defenses, no ammunition, no ability to fight back.

Finally, one day the parish priest, Father Kraum just happened to be in the hall as I came bursting out of the room. "What's wrong?" he asked me.

"Nothin'," I said, as I tried to get past him to the girl's room, where I would cry in private in the bathoom stall, sometimes until I couldn't breathe.

"What happened?" he insisted. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing. Please let me go, I ... I ... " and I started to cry. The tears I'd been holding back just wouldn't stay in. I could only keep them in for so long, just a few minutes, and we'd passed that amount of time. Now the kids would see me crying. Great.

He pulled me to the side, out of the stream of children pouring out of the classroom. "Tell me what happened," he said firmly.

"She makes fun of me," I said.

"Makes fun of you? What do you mean?"

"She ... she was making fun of my dress."

"Your dress? Why?"

"Be- be- because I always wear the same one for dress up day," I blurted, crying harder. "And she makes fun of the way I wear my purse and, and, and ..."

He interrupted me, "That's enough." His voice was hard. I thought he was mad at me. He looked up as Mrs. Ballard left the classroom. "Go wash your face and go to lunch." Right, I thought, as if I could eat now. "I have to talk to Mrs. Ballard."

I wanted to hear what he said. I wanted to know if someone would take my side and protect me. I wanted a HUG!

He whispered something fast and hard to the teacher. He noticed me and said, "GO!" As I walked up the hallway, feeling rejected, all I heard him say was, "God will punish you for what you've done today."

I wanted to rush to the girl's room and wash my face and get back right away to see what he'd do, but it was just too much. Having told my story, having opened that seething bottle of emotions, I wasn't in control. I went to the girl's room and cried. I cried like my soul would leave my body any second. I cried and cried until I couldn't stop sobbing. I couldn't breathe.

There were girls in the bathroom. I didn't want them to see me like this, but I couldn't help it. They asked what was wrong, but I couldn't talk because I was sobbing and couldn't quit. I was embarrassed and hurt and alone and felt like there was not one person in the world who cared if I was alive or dead.

The one girl in my class tried to talk to me. I said, between gasps, "I ... can't ... talk."

She said, "You're scaring me!"

"I'll ... I'll be alright. Go ... go." It was getting late and lunch was in progress. I wasn't in the least bit hungry.

The girl said, "I don't think I should leave you."

I said, "It's okay, I just need to calm down." Then I added, "I cry like this all the time at home. I'll live."

I still don't know what he said to her. The abuse stopped, but by then I couldn't look her in the eye. I was afraid to set her off again. No one ever talked to me about it. No one explained, no one apologized.