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Twelve Long Years

Next year would bring the start of one, but I would have to wait until then. So the teachers decided to invent a way to make my experience of the same class everyone else was taking somehow different. They came up with a stupid idea. They bought a piece of glossy white poster board and taped it around my desk so three-quarters of it had "walls." I could spend my time as I pleased while the rest of the pupils were taught. The teacher would give me whiteboard markers that could be used to decorate the inside of my cavernous territory, or I could read or draw if my heart so desired. I ultimately believe that this was a considerable disservice to my education due to the social implications that arose from being secluded most of the time. I sure thought that it was great at the time, though.
             Third grade introduced me to one of the most horrible instructors that have ever walked the earth: Mrs. Rogero. I would swear that she was a direct offspring of evil itself. Needless to say, we did not get along. Many of my yellow slips that year were on account of our mutual discord with one another. I was glad to see the end of that year.
             Fourth grade went by without much commotion, but I was quite upset to learn midway through the year that I would not be attending the same school for fifth grade. Our school, the school that I had come to know as my second home, was only going to serve pre-kindergarten through second grade the following year. I loved that school (even if I didn't care for one of the teachers), and it happened to be directly across the street from my house. I spent fifth grade five miles away from my neighborhood even though there was an excellent school thirty yards from my front door.
             The coming of junior high school brought increased attention to the social interaction that began to play a more prominent role in our eight-hour days. I can remember desperately wanting to be one of the popular kids during my junior high years.


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