I’ve been looking forward to this for a little while now. Today marks the STSC Substack debut of Jeanne, who is one of the founders (in every sense of the word) of our community and a fantastic artist- and as this submission shows- writer.
This autobiographical reminiscence shows a writer with a great voice, a wonderful eye for detail and a fantastic sense of humour (which everyone in our Discord will not be surprised to see at all). I’m thrilled that she’s started a Substack and I look forward to seeing that grow on the strength of pieces like this.
You should really check out it. And if this piece doesn’t convince you of the wisdom of making that choice and clicking the link below then I don’t know what to say. Stuff like this speaks for itself and you either feel it or you don’t.
Enjoy.
TJB.
In 1961, school was different, less intense. Kindergarten began the first day after Labor Day and lasted only half a day. During the three hour session, we were taught to count, only to ten, and we weren’t taught the alphabet or how to read. The main purpose of kindergarten was to ready us for the real deal coming up in first grade. Recess lasted half an hour. I learned that climbing the jungle gym and balancing on the topmost bars quickly drew the older boys on the playground into a huddle beneath me. I thought they admired my balancing skill, which was excellent for my age.1
It was fun. We were allowed to draw, sing, or play with those cool cardboard red and white bricks and other “educational toys”. We were taught how to take turns and how to sit quietly. Napping was on the curriculum. We learned that a hand held high above the head, supported by the other hand under the elbow, with a slight forward-lean to the upper body, accompanied by three staccato “oooh, oooh, oooh” sounds was more often chosen than a timid, silent, barely above the shoulder hand-raise. No hand movement at all and the teacher would pretty much leave you alone, but you were being judged and you knew it.
I was quiet in groups and mostly kept my hand in my lap, but my sister, who passed through just a year before, was active and outgoing as well as bright. She was judged “smart” in kindergarten and placed in the smart class for first grade. In the year she entered second grade she was placed in the smart class again. That same year, the smart class was split between first and second graders due to student numbers.
Whatever my future was to be, it began with me being assigned to the dumb class for first grade. My mother told me it was because I was not allowed to be in the same class as my sister to make me feel better about it, but I felt ashamed and was determined to prove the powers that be wrong, despite my shyness and unwillingness to speak out loud in school, I was nobody’s dummy.
First day of first grade
“My name is Mrs.Rourke, welcome to McGuffey School, please move to the desk I point to when your name is called.”
She was pretty and not too old. Her voice was kind. I felt comfortable as I thought someone kind would understand quickly that I wasn't dumb. I waited quietly and patiently to hear my name.
“Gee ann Steff hans” she called.2
I didn’t recognize that as my name so I just stood there silent and unmoving.
Once again.
“Gee ann Steff hans”, she called out, louder this time.
Since my last name started with an S and the role was always called alphabetically, there weren’t too many kids left standing. Three to be exact. Me and two boys. It began to dawn on me that it was my name she was calling.
I quizzically looked at Mrs Rourke and in a whisper asked,”Do you mean Jeanne Stephens?”
“What dear? I didn’t hear you.”
She cupped her ear in the universal speak up signal so I LOUDLY yelled,
“JEANNE STEPHENS.”
“Oh, sorry, yes, I’ve got it, you don’t have to shout, dear.”
That was strike one.
The rest of the day went by but I was not upset since I knew how to pronounce my name and she didn’t, so who exactly was the dumb one?
At the end of the day she passed out the school supply list to give to our parents. I quickly read it to myself3.... box of Kleenex, wooden ruler, 2 large number 2 pencils, pink eraser, 8 count box of crayons… Whoa! Relief, sweet relief, crayons, new ones- nothing was better to me in the world then. I loved to color and draw and I loved new crayons. Each one in that green and school bus yellow box had a perfectly flat sharp edge that to me meant anything was possible.
When I showed Mrs Rourke my skills with those spanking new crayons, there would be no stopping me.
The next day as we were coming in from recess, I walked over to peek into the kindergarten class to see if I could see my neighbor and friend Doug. I couldn’t, but by doing so I was called out by the attending playground teacher.
“Do you want to go back to kindergarten young lady?”, she scolded. “Then you will.”
She grabbed my arm and led me into the kindergarten room where I was made to stand in front of the class for ten minutes as punishment for leaving the line. It wasn’t that bad, I saw Doug so I smiled as secretly as I could and he smiled back. I was excused to return to my class, late and under sweet Mrs.Rourke’s spotlight glare, I walked to my seat in the back row. The titters of my classmates accompanied me.
That was strike two
The next few weeks went by, maybe a month. I didn't get in any more trouble and was only starting to feel confident enough to volunteer an answer with a partially raised hand now and then. We had learned our colors and how to spell and read them by then.4
“Time to practice your colors, class. Take one and pass it back.”, she said as she counted off just enough mimeographed papers for each row and handed them to the person in front.
I got out my 8 pack in eager anticipation. The boy in front of me finally passed me the paper. I gave the words a quick scan and focused on the illustration. It was boring: a table with a shaded lamp on it next to an overstuffed chair. I was already in that other world inside my head thinking of how to make that ugly old scene pretty and didn’t listen to Mrs Rourke’s instructions. I didn’t hear her say ‘read the word beside the object. It is a color. Then, color the object the same color as the word beside it. For example the word red, R- E- D is beside the chair. Color the chair red.’ Not a single word she said registered. I opened the crayons, selected yellow for the lampshade, orange for the lamp base, and brown for the table. I quickly colored those in and for flourish added a purple flower to the shade. I outlined the objects with a darker shade of the same colors for emphasis and paused to consider the chair.
Hmm, blue with green outlines will look nice,5 I thought. I outlined the chair pressing hard to get that deep green I liked, then filled in the rest with a soft coloring so it was a gentle blue. It looked great. I colored completely within the lines with even pressure for each color. I was proud and I knew she would like it. I added my name and passed it forward when prompted
That was strike three, I was out and didn’t even know it.
The next day Mrs. Rourke passed out the graded papers one by one. When she got to my desk I saw the failing grade. I was crushed and whispered my one word question on the verge of tears.
“Why?”
“You were supposed to color the chair red.” was the only answer I got.
“Good night, you moonlight ladies
Rockabye, sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won't you let me go down in my dreams?
And rockabye, sweet baby James"
“Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor
All girls were required to wear dresses to school, this might be the real reason the older boys huddled beneath me back then, not admiration of my balancing skills. But I had talent.
As you may remember if you read this, my name is often mispronounced, It is pronounced, Jean Stevens.
My smart older sister taught me to read when we played school at home. By first grade I could read solidly at a third grade level.
See above
At this time blue and green together, especially in clothing were a no-no as were red and orange. They were said to clash, so my choice was risky.
What a beautiful reflection. And it appears that first grade Jeanne was still a better artist than middle aged me...
This was really well written, Jeanne. It brought back memories of when Miss Gutteridge said to me when I was 9: "Haven't you got a tongue in your head?!" and I answered, unknowingly: "Not in my head, Miss." I swiftly regretted it!