Copy these pages

I was thinking in the shower this morning (because that’s where I can get some quality quiet time), and I stumbled upon one of my favorite memories. It’s actually a group of memories.

When I went to Catholic school, I wasn’t a very good student. My sister and I were different from all of the other kids and we ALL knew it. There was something odd about us girls. I’ve always been an emotional being and take things to heart so easily. This trait also causes me to be high strung and stressed out much of the time. Two ways my stress showed in school was by me not doing my work and daydreaming quite a bit when I should have paid attention.

(This all has a point, stay with me).

In third grade, there was a student teacher (I think she was a student teacher anyways). Ms. Smith taught only a portion of the third grade during certain subjects. I had her for math and I think also "reading." Ms. Smith liked to punish students – publicly. One time, she grabbed my arm and twisted it so hard that I couldn’t properly use it for a couple of days. I don’t remember what I did to piss her off on that occasion, but I couldn’t prove it because she left no bruises. And since none of the other kids liked me and my sister wasn’t in that room with me, there was nobody to back me up when I told somebody. Ms. Smith also liked to take away privileges and inflict more punishment.

I hated doing my homework. I hated paying attention in class. I hated my classmates. What did I love? I loved it when Ms. Smith would punish me by taking away recess and make me copy pages from the dictionary. I honestly remember intentionally not doing my homework so that my recess would be taken away by Ms. Smith. After my homework was complete, she wouldn’t let me go outside to be with the other kids, oh no, she’d never do that. That wouldn’t drive home the punishment. No, she’d make me copy pages from the dictionary until recess was over and the other students came back into the room.

I reveled in my seclusion from the other kids. They picked on me mercilessly. But inside, with the dictionary, I had words. Ms. Smith would pick a random page and have me copy on notebook paper. I loved it. LOVED it.  Ms. Smith could never understand why I never learned my lesson. Didn’t I want to go outside to play? Was I stupid? Why couldn’t I get it through my little head that I was supposed to do my homework at home?

I wasn’t stupid. I’m not stupid. I knew that if I did my homework, torment awaited me on the playground. Torment that ALL of the teachers turned a blind eye too. They didn’t like us either. I know that they didn’t. They thought we were white trash and didn’t deserve to be at that school; that my mother was a whore.

But if I didn’t do my homework, I got to stay inside alone with the dictionary. Ms. Smith would actually lock me in the classroom while she went to do whatever it is she had to do. I remember the sound of the lock turning. I remember smiling at that sound. If the door was locked, nobody could come in and bother me.

Now, why is this a happy set of memories for me? After all, they involve abuse and neglect. Why would I love these memories?

I love them because they introduced me to words. I love words. I love my dictionary. When I’m bored at work, one of the things I do is pull down my dictionary and read it. Yes, I read the dictionary. It’s a great book. There is so much knowledge there. And the words; they’re poetry in their own right. Think about your favorite word. Why do you love it? Is it the sound, the meaning or everything. Words are amazing.

And Ms. Smith never knew nor realized what she had given me. I’m not exactly thankful to her; she was an abusive hag who had no business teaching or being anywhere near children. But, she did give me my thirst for words by giving me that big red dictionary, opening it to a random page, and making me copy them down.