Notes On Being The Class Troublemaker
I wasn’t the victim of trauma, unless required piano practice and chores count.
I wasn’t beaten — my parents and grandparents had a ‘no hitting’ rule.
I’m the oldest of six, and, unfortunately, too much of a smarty pants. (To quote Mrs. Kelly, my first grade teacher.)
When I attended public school in the dark ages, there was no such thing as a gifted or advanced placement class. Mrs. Kelly and the principal, Foster Leighton, tried to talk my parents into skipping a grade, but they said no.
And so began my career as the class troublemaker!
If one can read, write, and do basic arithmetic there’s not much to learn in first grade (age 6). One learns to entertain oneself in other ways.
I begged to bring my own book to class, only to get shot down. The third or fourth time this happened, I believe I snapped.
I started slowly, with spit balls. I progressed until I became the class tormenter. I once made a girl hysterical by telling her over and over that her epidermis was showing. Every single day of first grade I was sent to the principal’s office. I was unbothered.
