LITMIR.BIZ

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first day in this new school I was assigned the last seat in a row of alphabetized fifth-graders, one of several exactly spaced rows, so different from the “open” classroom I’d attended the previous year. There we’d been encouraged to ask questions and “work at your own pace.” Fridays had been “casual” days; girls could wear pants. Nothing doing in Mrs. Satler’s classroom: Girls, you will be young ladies.

      Earlier that year my father had moved out, the private eye shacking up with his secretary, and we’d gone to live in my grandparents’ house in a new school district. Mrs. Satler emphasized discipline, obedience, conformity. That first day, she read the roster in a voice that belonged to a bird of prey. She called each student by his or her full name—Patricia Lynn Horvath. We do not use nicknames here! On the coldest mornings she kept us outside. We stood shivering in our separate lines, boys and girls, stomping our feet, our faces hidden behind scarves and hoods, our eyes and noses streaming. To the right and left other students greeted their teachers and were let into their warm classrooms. We waited. Eventually Mrs. Satler would come to the door.

      Good morning class, she’d recite flatly.

      We looked at her. What kind of day would it be?

      Good morning, Mrs. Satler, we’d reply loudly, in unison, cold air in our throats.

      What? I can’t hear you!

      GOOD MORNING, MRS. SATLER!

      Is that the best you can do? In that case, you can all stay out there and freeze! And she would slam the door.

      One day she grabbed a boy by the hair and, laughing maniacally, pushed his head into his locker. Another morning she whipped off her wig and waved it at us. April Fools, she screeched. I’m bald! Even the boys quieted, and a girl burst into tears. I knew that at night Mrs. Satler’s human shape fell away and she assumed her true form—the Medusa.

      Mrs. Satler ignored her No Nicknames rule whenever it suited her, which was most days. I was “Sieve Head,” an honorific awarded me the day I forgot some homework assignment. Some kids, mostly boys, she hit with rulers. One or two girls she made pets of, praising their work, letting them erase the board. She was especially partial toward a Scandinavian looking girl named Nelsa who was embarrassed by this and used to tell the other kids, during recess, It’s not my fault, I hate her too. Because she was pretty, and uncomfortable with her status, no one held it against her.

      I pleaded with my mother to let me stay home. I told her about the wig, the locker, the name-calling. She complained to the principal, but so did the other parents, all of them demanding that their child be transferred to the other fifth grade class. Mrs. Satler had us write letters. The theme: Why You Hate Me. We could, she said, remain anonymous. Still, we lied. She read the letters aloud. You’re a nice teacher. We don’t hate you. Sometimes you’re a little mean—here she lowered her glasses—but mostly you are nice. My mother later told me Mrs. Satler submitted these letters to the principal. Whether the ruse worked or whether it was something else, she remained in her job until she elected to retire.

      Sixth grade was no better. Every morning Miss Swenson read to us from Pilgrim’s Progress. The pilgrim wandered a bleak landscape, beset by sin, while we fidgeted, itchy in wool sweaters, the gray sky hard against the window, the language of the story impenetrable. We memorized poems that were never discussed. One by one we stood to recite “O Captain! My Captain!” Walt Whitman, I decided, was a sailor, a famous captain’s son. His father had collapsed on deck (heart attack?) and now he was sad.

      For hours we practiced penmanship, Miss Swenson’s leathery bicep jiggling as she drew cursive letters on the board. She had us copy long passages from our science text: That’ll teach you to be sloppy. I hope you all get writers’ cramp! One of her favorite pedagogical strategies was to pit students against each other. She’d select a piece of work she considered exemplary: a drawing, a story or poem. Look at that shading! Listen, how imaginative! Why can’t the rest of you do that?

      The drawings often belonged to a girl named Joyce, and the writing was usually mine. We’d lower our heads, knowing what was next:

       Now look at this. Someone’s NOT EVEN TRYING!

      Miss Swenson tore drawings in two. Read stories aloud, mistakes and all. Looking back, I believe one of her favorite targets had dyslexia. She’d read his work (“dog” for “God,” “angle” for “angel”) while he sat at his desk, turning red.

      Recess was payback. The kids who were mocked in the classroom vented their frustrations the minute they were let outdoors, insulting those who could not race, jump, or kick, shunning the awkward and slow. Unable to compete, I stayed apart, watching, wishing the teachers would let me read. I did not want to be Miss Swenson’s star pupil, Mrs. Satler’s joke. Hiding in corners, keeping my mouth shut, seemed the safest way of avoiding these twin dragons. If no one noticed me, no one could single me out.

      I’d always been shy in school, but in this new environment I kept a monk’s silence, only speaking—whispering, practically—when spoken to. Sometimes not even then. I waited for the day to wind itself down so I could go home, where I felt safe enough to have a voice. I was hoping teachers and students alike would give up, leave me alone. It almost worked.

      Each week the guidance counselor, a matronly woman, pigeon-breasted in frilly polyester blouses, pulled three girls from our sixth grade class. One of the girls had been kept back at least once and was already growing breasts. Another sat vacantly, twirling her long blonde hair and giggling. Both these girls were frequent victims of Miss Swenson’s ridicule. The third girl was the one who had cried the year before when Mrs. Satler tore off her wig. All three were in the slow reading group. Mid-year the guidance counselor came into our room, the same as always, and went up to Miss Swenson’s desk. She whispered something; Miss Swenson pointed. I slouched in my seat. The guidance counselor beckoned. I pretended not to see. She walked over to my desk and told me to come with her. From that day on, I was part of her special group of girls.

      At first I thought it was a mistake. These were the slow girls, the ones in remedial reading and math. I was quiet, not stupid. Couldn’t they tell the difference? Furious, I refused to participate. I sat in the circle, but would not open my mouth. I vowed to work harder, get straight A’s, show everyone that I did not belong.

       Earthbound

      Sometime during the spring of sixth grade, the gym teacher sent me home with a note. She’d noticed how off-center I appeared when trying to touch my toes. Perhaps, she wrote, our pediatrician should take a look. A week or two later I stood in the doctor’s office in my underpants, bending over, raising my arms, shifting left and right, while he measured arms and legs, shoulders and hips. I leaned forward, arms dangling, knees straight. Touch your toes, he said. I couldn’t, the only kid in my class unable to do so, but so what? It wasn’t like I couldn’t read. Why, all of a sudden, should this require a doctor’s visit? I was bad at sports, that was all. Soon I’d put on my clothes, take a lollipop from the fishbowl on the receptionist’s desk, and go home. But the doctor asked me to sit down. He told my mother and me that I had scoliosis—a double, S-shaped curvature of the spine—and referred us to an orthopedic clinic at Bridgeport Hospital.

      On our first visit to the clinic I sat in the waiting room, a long corridor with welded-together chairs that faced each other from opposite walls. Many of the patients were young girls like me. Some wore elaborate-looking back braces that made them sit up rigidly, their necks restrained behind stainless steel bars, their chins thrust forward onto plastic podiums. Several wore leg braces; one girl had a prosthetic leg that ended in a clunky brown shoe, like something an old man might wear. A few people seemed normal enough, though God only knew what they (or I) might look like coming out of the doctor’s office. For once not even a book could distract me.

      I was not entirely certain what had landed me in this place. My spine was curved, that much I knew, my right side shorter, thwarted, out of all alignment. The word scoliosis meant little to me. I’d flunked a lot of fitness tests.

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