Erin Simonds
Period 4 English
Sunday, October 18, 1998

Second grade. I'm a bright student, sure. An only child, yes. My teacher - she's doing her best. So am I. I'm doing my best to make due with what I've got - smarts and not a whole lot of popularity. Believe it or not, popularity is an issue in second grade, and as I found out, it can shape your whole life. Being bright - really bright - doesn't always help, either.

I landed a friendship with a kid named Anthony. He wasn't of the greatest family, he was pretty smart, but couldn't put it to use in school. Anthony was the kind of kid that grows up being a mechanic who had the potential to perfect cold fusion. Ant wasn't too popular in our class, and he was by far the class troublemaker. Most people looked down on him because of what they had heard from him - or about him. I didn't. I was naive, and unprejudiced, because I had felt first-person the sting of not having a whole lot of friends. So Anthony and I were known to pal around all through second grade, engaging in all kinds of "troublesome" behavior. I can recall Anthony and me making paper 'wallets' out of the teacher's paperboard stash, and selling them for ¢25 apiece. And making masks out of masking tape (get it?). Innocent stuff, but it got on my teacher's nerves.

The kicker was, my second grade teacher knew I was smart, and hated how I was hanging around with such 'trash' as Anthony. God forbid someone should cut him some slack. So, my teacher knew I was bright, but she hated it too. You see, I have been notorious throughout my school career to appear completely inattentive, but hear and understand every word the teacher says. All through elementary school, teachers would call on me mid-lecture, to see if I was paying attention, and I'd spin off the answer as if I'd known it since the day I was born. In the early years - up till about fourth grade - teachers hated it. I couldn't help it, and I knew it, and my parents knew it. I still have comments from every teacher until fourth grade, reeling about how I don't pay attention in class. I see now that it must be frustrating, thinking that you aren't getting through to a student, only to have consistently perfect test-scores and grades thrown in your face.

An entire school year, this went on. Anthony and I engaged in our antics, and I continued to show up my teacher. I didn't know I was doing anything wrong. Finally, I hit third grade, but my reputation preceded me. Good news travels fast; bad news travels faster; rumors fly. Nobody really liked my third grade teacher, but I was impartial. She went into the school year completely prepared to make sure I regretted hanging with Anthony. I went into the school year ready to enjoy some more easy days, playing with around with Anthony, and getting perfect grades without trying. Good news. I was truly fortunate, to be such a good learner by nature, but I didn't know that, and my third grade teacher wouldn't admit it.

Bad news. America in 1990 didn't know much about gifted kids, and how to spot them, and how to handle them. My teacher saw me as an inferior - a threat even. In her eyes, I was a malicious little boy, taunting her with my effortless knowledge of the curriculum, spiting her by befriending a boy who was born to make her year troublesome.

Flying rumors. Somehow, or another, I survived a year with my third-grade teacher. I looked forward to fourth grade - a year with an objective teacher, one who can appreciate me, despite my friends. No such luck. My legacy lived on - not stopping with third grade. Why? Well, as luck would have it, my third grade teacher moved up to fourth grade the same year I did. I didn't know until now how lucky I was to get the teacher that I did. I went into fourth grade enthusiastic, but my teacher had heard her share of warnings from my third grade teacher. My fourth grade teacher, however, was young, open-minded, and frankly, nice. She took my old teacher's comments respectfully, but chose to form her own opinions, based on her year with me. Completely unprejudiced, she saw me as who I really was - a very bright child. A child who was compassionate and unpolluted enough to befriend a child with some problems. She saw Anthony as a child raised in a hectic household, tom by divorce, and faced with a history of Attention Deficit Syndrome. She got through to both of us, and saw that we were both special. She introduced Anthony to special education - to cater to his problems. She placed me in the newly-founded gifted program, Discovery. I was finally free of prejudiced, misunderstanding teachers. Those flying rumors had finally hit a brick wall.

I was only in fourth grade, though. I recognized that my life had just gotten a lot better, but I didn't know the least of it. At the end of ninth grade, my freshman year at high school, I had a long conversation one evening with my mom. I found out things I never knew - and things I was never meant to know. My friendship with Anthony and my propensity to learn unlike other kids had done things to me that I never knew about. It was in this conversation that I found out why I was placed in the gifted program. I found out that my third-grade teacher warned the parents of my second-best-friend, Adam, to keep their child away from me. I found out that my parents sent in a Calvin & Hobbs comic strip from the Sunday paper depicting Calvin dozing off in class, and then being called on by his witch-of-a-teacher, and giving the right answer. I found out why the trend of injustice stopped. I found out a lot that night. And ever since, I have known how cruel words and people can be - when they don't understand what they are saying. I no longer hate my third grade teacher, for I now understand why she was the way she was. After all it's only human.