Spring 2008

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Correct Me If I'm Wrong, But...

by Deborah Hill

Whoever said, “Ignorance is bliss,” clearly never met my second grade teacher, Mrs. Rossi. If they had, they would have said, “Ignorance is bliss if you’re a mime, or a monk who’s taken a vow of silence, or maybe a witness for the prosecution in a Mafia trial.” But definitely not if you’re in Mrs. Rossi’s grade two class. Then it’s just painful.

One of the greatest things about being in second grade (aside from the fact that you don’t have to pay taxes, haggle for parking spots or concoct a reasonable explanation for the kids as to why the goldfish is floating on his back) is having a teacher who will read stories to you. This is, hands down, the best reason not to drop out after grade one. Every afternoon, with the remnants of our lunch rotting away in the cloakroom, after we had finished the business of yelling at the top of our lungs and losing mittens at recess, the bell would ring and we would head back to our classroom where Mrs. Rossi would spend the next half hour reading to us. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. I traveled to the fair with Fern and Wilbur, learned to fly with Peter Pan and imagined how fantastic “Show and Tell” would be if Curious George was my pet monkey.

Story time was, without a doubt, my favourite time of day. Well, most days. On this particular one, Mrs. Rossi was reading a gripping tale centred on a large waterfall cascading over a cliff, and pooling into a lagoon deep in the jungle. I’m not sure, but there may have been mermaids as well. Suffice it to say, there was a lot of water involved. And the author, so gifted at description, actually raised the humidity level in the room. Which normally I would have loved (the description, not the humidity.) However, at that moment, I really had to pee. And with each sentence, as the water became more and more real, I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to hold my bladder.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mrs Rossi closed the book, pushed the glasses that were teetering on the end of her nose back up, and announced that we would have a few minutes of quiet time. Now was my chance! I scurried up to her desk, cleared my throat and asked the question that teachers of young children hear all too often, “Can I please go to the bathroom?” I was shifting my weight from one leg to the other, hoping none of the boys would notice how nervous I was.

“May I please go to the bathroom?” she replied, staring intently at me.

I stared back. My nervousness temporarily replaced by outright terror. Why was the teacher asking my permission to go to the bathroom? I was only seven. How did I suddenly get put in charge?

She waited for a response, the glasses sliding back down her nose. My bladder felt as if it might burst, but surprisingly the feeling of unease was more uncomfortable. What did she want from me? I tried frantically to remember if she had ever asked anyone else’s permission to go to the restroom. And if so, what did they say? Maybe it was like banging the erasers together at recess—what if everyone got a turn?

She crinkled her brow as if she had just caught one of the boys chewing a particularly large wad of Double Bubble, folded her neatly manicured hands on the desk and leaned further forward. I started to sweat. If she had to go half as bad as I did, why didn’t she just get on with it? This was worse than dodge ball. I was beginning to understand how Little Red Riding Hood felt when she showed up at Grandma’s and realized they might not be baking cookies that day. Finally, I replied with the only words that would come out of my mouth.

“Can I go to the bathroom, please?” I asked, somewhat quieter hoping she would laugh and say she hadn’t heard me the first time.

“May I go to the bathroom, please?” she replied, still waiting, convinced it seemed to me, that I was withholding information, and fully prepared to torture it out of me.

And now I wanted to cry. What kind of crazy game was this? Where was the nice middle-aged lady who read us stories? And who was this lunatic who had replaced her? She must have finally sensed my desperation, because she sighed, pushed her glasses up, leaned back in her chair and said, “Oh, go ahead.”

It was years before I got the point. And I still think there are more humane ways to teach grammar.