A Government School Horror Story

This is a cathartic letter that I wrote today to my dead government school art teacher, Mrs. Reynolds.  The memory of Mrs. Reynolds is one reason I could never bear the thought of allowing my children to set foot in a government school.

Dear Mrs. Reynolds,

I’m sure you are dead by now, because you had blue hair when I was in sixth grade, and that was 40 years ago. Funny, I remember you so vividly. Huge frame, blue hair in a fingerwaved hairdo that was out of style, and red lipstick that was out of style and cateye glasses that were out of style.  Deep commanding voice.  Mike Tyson would run away from you if he met you in a dark alley.  You were my art teacher for 3 years.

Funny, as a homeschooling mom, I collected an entire row of art resources for my boys. We did art projects all of the time. But I don’t recall any such happy activities in your class. The only thing that really stands out in mymemory is “Op Art”.  (Op art was an art technique that was popular in the sixties. You drew a geometric shape, plotted points at intervals all along the shape, Numbered the points, then made designs by drawing lines with your ruler and connecting the points somehow.  I never had one come out right, which doesn’t surprise me at all now, as generally numbers and linear things aren’t really my forte.) Needless to say I never got a good grade in art.

I guess we must have done something besides Op art in your class, because one day I actually needed my scissors. It happened so seldom that I had actually taken mine home and forgotten to bring them back.  When I went up to your desk and told you my problem, pure hatred clouded your ugly face. “That was a stupid thing to do!” you sneered.  I don’t remember if you found me any scissors or not. My memory fades to telling my mother about the incident.

Mother was so tired of going up to the school and fighting with the teachers like you at Windsor Hills Elementary School that she was struggling with post traumatic stress disorder. I’m sure this latest assault on her offspring was no surprise. She gave me my battle plan and sent me off to defend myself against Goliath.

I found you in the hall the next day after school. I ran to  catch up as you strode down the hall with your giant steps.

“Mrs Reynols?”

You didn’t speak, you just halted and gave me that look.  (You know, the one inviting me to an extra warm resort.)

“My mother told me to tell you that forgetting my scissors was not a stupid thing to do. I just made a mistake.”  You stared at me in disbelief that I would dare confront you. Then you smiled a wry little smile and said, “Well, you tell your mother that that is a matter of opinion.”

Thank God, your opinion was only an opinion and I did not choose to buy into it.  I sent this notion to reside with you in that really warm resort.  I am trying to forgive you Mrs. Reynolds, because God told me I need to.  I am asking God to empower me to forgive you of the hurt you inflicted on my little growing intellect. I pray that God will use this story to touch the hearts of parents to protect their children from such assaults by taking control of their education. If this true story can empower a mother to encourage her children and teach them at home, then I am glad it happened to me.