Mrs. Wilson Unhinged First Grade Teacher

 

   

On the eve of my first day of school, I was frightened.   I lay awake wondering what would become of me.  I had a nickname, like everyone in my family.  But I didn't actually know my name.  Tomorrow I would be sent away.   I supposed I would never return.  

What would my new life be like? I wondered.  Maybe some kind people would find me and take care of me.  I knew I would never find my way home again.  How could I?  I didn't know who I was or where I lived.   I wouldn't know anyone at the place I was going.  I barely even spoke English.  What was school?  No idea.  This was bad.  

I hadn't learned my ABCs yet or anything about numbers.  We had no telephone.  We actually didn't have a TV then.  We were somewhat isolated.  I didn't know my address.  I lived in a house that was in the woods in Atlanta, and wouldn't recognize the driveway if I were driven past it since the house was way down a hill hidden in a little valley in the woods.  I didn't even know the names of anyone in my family, since we all had nicknames except for "Mama" and "Daddy."  

I guess it never dawned on anyone that I didn't know who I was, where I was going or why, where I lived, or anything that would identify me or anyone in my family.  There was no way for anyone to communicate with them either.  

I was transported by a school bus far away from home, for the last time I supposed.  The bus number was 66, which I know now, but I didn't know then.  This might have been a clue on how to retrace my steps, but who knew?  And away I went.  

I was herded off the bus into a room with odd chairs, and I sat down.  There were other children there, and I spoke to them.  They looked nervous.  Suddenly a bell rang, which meant nothing to me.  Another odd event in an odd day.  It didn't shut me up.  I noticed everyone else got very quiet.  Strange.  

Suddenly a woman stormed into the room.  No introduction.  Not a word at all.  She was very thin,  old, with short, dark brown hair, a weathered, wrinkled face, and a black dress.  In fact, as I would later see, she only ever wore black.  She was severe looking, and she made a beeline for me.  Before I knew it, she had snatched me up by my hair, never having said a word at all since she entered the room.  She lifted me up to eye level, and began to shake me with all her might, and then flung me to the floor.   

So, that was Mrs. Wilson.    

In the years since then, I've rarely met anyone so unhinged.  Sometimes I've wondered what people were thinking when they put this dear soul in charge of little children.  She must have looked benign to them, being larger than her most likely, and she possibly looked very righteous if not a little too stern.   They didn't feel threatened by her.  She probably had a different demeanor around them.  Someone the little ones would be safe in the care of.  The stuff of nightmares.  

For a long time I've puzzled over this crazy experience.  She continued to be my teacher for most of first grade, until I was switched to another class.   She continued to be the scourge of other little children.   Probably the panic at the first day of school is a common experience.  What was going on with Mrs. Wilson?   She may have suffered from senile dementia.  That would explain a lot.  I saw her once about five years later when we had moved about 60 miles away to another county.  She was in her usual black dress, wearing a scowl and shopping for groceries.  

Chapter Two. 

I wasn't the only person in first grade that Mrs. Wilson had issues with.  I remembered my father visited the school ready to take on Mrs. Wilson after also assaulting one of my siblings, who told him about it.  

I wondered what the story was about that, so this morning, when my brother called, I asked him if he remembered her.  "Yes.... "  Did Daddy ever go to the school because of something she did to you?  "No.... We got along well."  Oh really? 

He started saying that at this point Mrs. Wilson had most likely died, and has had any of her misdeeds dealt with, so why can't I be satisfied with that?  "Why do you continue to harbor this hatred of her?  Are you just that kind of person?  When was the last time you took Communion?"  

OK.  I asked him, seriously, if he had had any noticeable blessings since he began taking Communion more often.  "Well, I had surgery and survived, etc."  And the Mississippi didn't rise?

Things took the usual weird turn with him.  His voice became higher pitched and the volume of his voice ramped up louder.   He somehow seemed to see himself as God's little avenging angel suddenly playing the righteous card.  I asked him why Daddy had visited the school about her outrageous behavior to confront the Wilson menace.  He said it wasn't about him,  but I remember that it was about him.  Now he claims he was the perfect little darling of Mrs. Wilson.  How could I have developed a bad attitude against her in a few seconds of times after just sitting at my desk in first grade for the first time and having never met her?  Did I say I hated Mrs. Wilson?  Even if I did who made him the monitor of my mouth?  I'm just negative.  And he's Mr. Sunshine.   Mr. Sunshine is on call block.