. Thinking back to when I was a kid, I only attended public school for the
Kindergarten and 1st grade because as a newly divorced single
working woman, my mother wouldn't accomplish her vision of sending me to private school for anther couple years until I was in second grade. . In 1977, she plunked me, a "sensitive", adopted, and only child of an obviously broken home into a half day, "Early Bird" K program at Pomeroy Elementary in Santa Clara, CA. Then, she joined the secretarial pool of a burgeoning technology game company called Atari and steadily smashed glass barriers much like Lily Tomlin in 9 to 5.
With the new perspective I've gained on my own personal childhood development, I can see how the factors I had on my childhood plate influenced the marks I received on even my earliest report card.
"Mrs. Davis, my Kindergarten teacher wrote, "I enjoy Tommy, but he must try and be more aggressive." That's just another way of saying I was sensitive which is another spelling for sissy. It's true that I enjoyed the conversation oriented games that girls played instead of the rough and tumble physically oriented activities of the boys. But she continued, "Tommy seems to get frustrated easily and (she implores) somehow, he needs to get more confidence in himself."
There are a potential few reasons why I placed a great deal of stress on my own shoulders. My parents adopted me from a crowded foster home when I was 14 months old and divorced by the time I was three. I can still remember my mom and I seat-belted into her packed Pinto as we inched out of the driveway the day my dad told us, "I'm willing to let you and Tommy go,". He had just started an electrical contracting company that bore his family's name which would grow to competitive proportions in the next 30 years and eventually be sold by his brother for millions of dollars years after my dad had dissolved his partnership in a huff.
I was always very well behaved and put my toys away without being asked. I was the consummate good kid so it's no wonder I got such a report from Mrs. Davis of Pomeroy K.
Promoted to the 1st grade, I met Ms. Ross , my mean and mannish teacher at the still public Pomeroy Elementary. While first learning to write, I naturally favored my left hand which she tried to force me to
switch. She clearly believed the old Latin definition for left which translated as sinister. On the last day of school, she stood in front
of the class and told us that one day, black gunk would seep out of our ears,
thus ending the dumb shit act we had been putting on all year. She
seemed to focus on the little things instead of the big picture. For example,
despite the fact that I was, as she reported, one of the class's best readers,
she made an issue of saying, "We'll be glad when his printing catches
up.
She found room to pick in defeatist overtones with the next comment. "Tommy is still trying hard to use those fine muscles. Some days are better than others."
Her attitude clearly set the tone for a lifetime pattern of me ostensibly feeling alienated and out of touch with my body. As for being one of the best readers, I can remember Ms. Ross marching me down to the Principal's office by my ear for refusing to complete a math assignment. Tossing me off into the detention zone, she yelled, "He reads like a son-of--a-gun but he won't do (muffled expletive) MATH. " I was invariably pleased with myself for holding my ground by marking a big black X from one end of my math assignment to the other.
I had no place for numbers in my life, even then.
In 2nd grade, I entered the gilded halls of private school where I would spend the rest of my school career. At St. Francis Cabrini in San Jose, my mother now had to drive carpool on alternate mornings with another girl's mother who didn't work. There were several occasions that my mother hired a cab to drive us to school. Sadly, my messy printing merely became messy handwriting after I mastered the Palmer cursive
working woman, my mother wouldn't accomplish her vision of sending me to private school for anther couple years until I was in second grade. . In 1977, she plunked me, a "sensitive", adopted, and only child of an obviously broken home into a half day, "Early Bird" K program at Pomeroy Elementary in Santa Clara, CA. Then, she joined the secretarial pool of a burgeoning technology game company called Atari and steadily smashed glass barriers much like Lily Tomlin in 9 to 5.
With the new perspective I've gained on my own personal childhood development, I can see how the factors I had on my childhood plate influenced the marks I received on even my earliest report card.
"Mrs. Davis, my Kindergarten teacher wrote, "I enjoy Tommy, but he must try and be more aggressive." That's just another way of saying I was sensitive which is another spelling for sissy. It's true that I enjoyed the conversation oriented games that girls played instead of the rough and tumble physically oriented activities of the boys. But she continued, "Tommy seems to get frustrated easily and (she implores) somehow, he needs to get more confidence in himself."
There are a potential few reasons why I placed a great deal of stress on my own shoulders. My parents adopted me from a crowded foster home when I was 14 months old and divorced by the time I was three. I can still remember my mom and I seat-belted into her packed Pinto as we inched out of the driveway the day my dad told us, "I'm willing to let you and Tommy go,". He had just started an electrical contracting company that bore his family's name which would grow to competitive proportions in the next 30 years and eventually be sold by his brother for millions of dollars years after my dad had dissolved his partnership in a huff.
I was always very well behaved and put my toys away without being asked. I was the consummate good kid so it's no wonder I got such a report from Mrs. Davis of Pomeroy K.
Promoted to the 1st grade, I met Ms. Ross , my mean and mannish teacher at the still public Pomeroy Elementary. While first learning to write, I naturally favored my left hand which she tried to force me to
She found room to pick in defeatist overtones with the next comment. "Tommy is still trying hard to use those fine muscles. Some days are better than others."
Her attitude clearly set the tone for a lifetime pattern of me ostensibly feeling alienated and out of touch with my body. As for being one of the best readers, I can remember Ms. Ross marching me down to the Principal's office by my ear for refusing to complete a math assignment. Tossing me off into the detention zone, she yelled, "He reads like a son-of--a-gun but he won't do (muffled expletive) MATH. " I was invariably pleased with myself for holding my ground by marking a big black X from one end of my math assignment to the other.
I had no place for numbers in my life, even then.
In 2nd grade, I entered the gilded halls of private school where I would spend the rest of my school career. At St. Francis Cabrini in San Jose, my mother now had to drive carpool on alternate mornings with another girl's mother who didn't work. There were several occasions that my mother hired a cab to drive us to school. Sadly, my messy printing merely became messy handwriting after I mastered the Palmer cursive
To a certain extent, my mother had broken out of the gynarchy and glass ceiling by 1981 and the dual income she combined with her boss who became my stepfather improved our quality of life a great deal around that time. We moved to Los Gatos and put in a swimming pool
In private Catholic school, religion was required as was a uniform dress code.
Points for student achievement were offered on a 1 to 4 scale with 4 being the
worst.
I continued to achieve the
highest marks in every subject except for Handwriting and Mathematics where I
earned a 3, the equivalent of a C. The final estimate on my report card read
much like the one from the prior year. This time, I was Michael.
"Michael needs to be gentler and more patient with himself when he is unable
to do something." An asterisk is added in quotations down on the
bottom with the exclamation,
"He needs to work on his temper! "
That's funny because even today, I have absolutely no patience if something does not go the way I think it ought to. I have learned through a lifetime of practice that it is easier to pitch a fit and let someone else come and do the task for me rather than try and work it out myself.
Some habits die hard.
