The Mean One

 Appearances are always deceiving. Look first with your eyes, close them, and then look with your heart.

Dyllon’s Law

March 1965 – Eleven Years Old

As I walked out the front door to my house, I knew it wasn't difficult to find my school; it was just a block away. I could even see it from my living room window. Public School 170 looked like an old building and that was because it was. I guessed that it had been there many, many years before Stephen Foster Projects had been built. To me, the school looked ancient.

I walked past the playground and I felt really good because today was picture taking day. I had on my Sunday suit and a starched white shirt. There were lots of kids and parents moving around the area but all were heading towards the school. I felt like others were looking at me in my suit and I tried not to scoff my shined shoes before I got there.

It would have been easy enough to walk in the entrance of the building that faced me on the 112^th Street side but I couldn't. That was the girl’s side. Funny how the boys could leave the school through the girl’s side after three o’clock but couldn't go in through there in the morning.  I guess the teachers thought we’d get too “excited” being with the girls early in the morning. I guess it was just a way of showing that the teachers had the control starting first thing in the morning.

As I walked around the corner of Lenox Avenue I thought back to last year when I used to walk to school with Louis. When I was in the fifth grade, we walked to school for the first few weeks.  Soon he split to be with his friends and I did the same. He had graduated in June and was now at William L. Ettinger, J.H.S. 13 on 106^th Street. I missed seeing him at school but by this September, I’d be going to Ettinger also.

Once I rounded the second corner, on 111^th Street, I could see the top floor windows of the school. They were shaped in the Gothic church style which reminded me of my church, St. Thomas the Apostle. It was on 118^th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue. I loved that building. My father, the Catholic, had taken my there every Sunday since I was born. Services there were always quiet and felt safe. By June 1964, I had been confirmed in the Catholic church. I guess that made me a full-fledged Catholic, whatever that meant. At twelve, I still believed that everybody was basically good and that good things would happen to good people. I also believed that God was everywhere, watching everything and was adding up points.

The rear entrance of 170 was a mirror image of the 112^th Street side. The four-story building was shaped like a huge “H” placed on its back. As I walked up the steps, into the bottom of the H, there was the familiar open area that we used for a playground. The cracked concrete made it even more obvious that the school had been here a long time. No one seemed to be concerned with repairing the courtyard. Maybe that was because of the talk that they were going to tear this school down and build a new one. Guess I’d see that from across the street but not while I was going to the school.

I found Darryl, Gregory and Eddie at the rear of the courtyard. Darryl was talking about the TV pictures that had come from the "Ranger 9" moon probe. He said the pictures were transmitted just before it crashed.  Of course I knew this already. Anything having to do with space travel, I was interested in.   I then changed the subject and talked about this cool movie I had seen called  “Goldfinger.” This guy had a lot of gadgets and a car that could do everything but fly.

As I spoke, the 8:15 bell sounded. It was time for us all to line up by class, before we walked into the school. There was Mrs. Petersen telling the boys in our class to straighten up. As we went in the building, I remembered that at the start of the term, in September, I actually felt scared. During the prior year, my brother and his friends talked about how mean their sixth grade teacher was. Her name was Mrs. Petersen. 

They said she was strict and would hit them with a ruler. She had the reputation of being the meanest teacher in the school.  I thought back to the end of June of last year. At the bottom of my fifth grade report card, it showed which sixth class I would be in and who would be my teacher. To my shock, I had gotten the mean one, old lady Petersen, for my next teacher! 

We filed into the building, then into our classes. As always, I sat quietly in class. At least I no longer had to make my eyes small in order to see the blackboard. A few months ago, I complained to my mother that it was hard for me to see the board. Suddenly I had these black framed glasses.  I was glad to be able to see but felt a little goofy in them. Except for one girl, nobody else in my class of about thirty people wore glasses. I already felt like I was a smaller kid, now I felt like the glasses made me seem a little weaker. I had picked up the nickname “professor” and I knew it applied because I was very interested in science. I took the name as a compliment but it just didn't seem cool.   

I had convinced myself that my class, just like the rest of the school, was broken up into two categories. The cool kids who were good at sports and had an easy time talking to others. Then there were the not so cool kids who were better at school work and uncomfortable when meeting new people. Of course my outlook was a lot more complicated than this but that pretty much covered sports and friendships.  It seemed that the more the cool kids pushed being “friendly”, the more they got in trouble in the class. While in the classroom, Mrs. Petersen had the control and her sharp words would immediately control the “friendliness.” When applying her direction, her voice sounded like she was grinding pebbles with her teeth. 

This particular day in class was boring though and Mrs. Petersen had few complaints. At least the afternoon was fun because we were finally called to pose for our graduating class pictures in the boy’s courtyard. 

Everybody looked so different in their dress up clothes. Nice clothes made us look more mature than we really were. I was surprised how good some of the girls looked in their crisp white blouses and neat skirts. Some even wore floral print dresses that made them look a lot older than they were. The guys were dressed in a variety of suits with the white folded handkerchief showing in the jacket pocket. I thought my suit looked good but some of the other ones looked better. Everybody looked neat, that is except for Burt. No matter what that poor guy did, he could never look dressed up. Even in a suit, he found a way to look sloppy.

After saying “cheese”, we returned to the class and in less than hour it would be 3:00 pm. Two guys were beginning to get out of their seats in anticipation. Mrs. Petersen had seen this and slapped down her ruler which made a cracking sound on her desk.

“Tony and Ernest! You boys better sit still” Mrs. Petersen said firmly and gave them a cold stare.

“I was just collecting my books, Mrs. Petersen,” Tony replied quickly.

He knew the others in class might think this was funny and he always seemed to have an answer for everything.

“You’re going to find yourself staying after class instead of enjoying your afternoon, if that’s what you want”   Mrs. Petersen said sharply.

Tony’s smile faded. He knew that the next words that he was about to say would change his afternoon. Mrs. Petersen didn't play. Tony had played this game before and he didn't like the way it ended. 

Tony backed down and quietly said, “No, Mrs. Petersen.”

A few of the girls in the class snickered softly. Mrs. Petersen jerked her head abruptly to the right towards the noise.

“Quiet until the bell rings” Mrs. Petersen shouted.

I expected the pebbles to fall out her mouth but I didn't see any. No one made another sound for the next fifteen minutes.

When the bell rang, everyone was excited but they slowly picked up their books and carefully  left their seats. Seemed like every one wanted to get out of class and change out of their dressy clothes.  That was except for Sam, David, Milton and I who stayed in our seats while everyone else left the classroom. We watched as the last of the students went through the classroom door.

After being in Mrs. Petersen’s class for a few months, I realized something. She was a strong Negro teacher in a class full of Negroes and Puerto Ricans. She wanted her students to do better, so she was harder on the ones that didn't try. In the beginning, my friends David, Milton and Sam and I would stay after school to help her set up for the next day. As time rolled by, Mrs. Petersen would set up special activities for us which were fun. These activities might be an arts and craft project or she might even have us trying to figure out hard math problems. She didn't have to worry about behavior problems. We wanted to be there. Most of the other kids would have thought that we were nuts but we were having a good time.  When I got to know I her, I realized that she was really a nice person. When I told my brother about this, he didn't understand. Staying after school with a teacher to him only meant that he had done something wrong.

I felt like I had grown to have a greater understanding about how people see other people.  What you see on the surface is not always what is going on inside a person. You have to take the time to listen and then listen again. People were not always what they seemed. Contrary to all the stories I had heard, I always remembered Mrs. Petersen as my favorite teacher. 

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