Raise Your Hand

First grade was difficult for Zachary.  The academics were basically a breeze for him; it was his teacher who proved to be the challenge.  In an effort to protect the innocent, we will call Zach’s teacher Mrs. Jenkins.  Mrs. Jenkins was a 23 year old newbie, in her second year of teaching elementary school, fresh out of college.  She was a newlywed, living hours from her family in another state.  I imagine when you are right out of college and teaching, you are prepared to give it your all, with fresh ideas and a love of children.  Zach managed to strip all of that away in one short academic year.

In our defense, we did warn her.  My husband and I even told her to talk to his Kindergarten teacher, a veteran, about ideas to keep him in check.  From a young age, we knew Zach had the makings of a cross between Bart Simpson and Dennis the Menace.  When he got in trouble at home, he would actually get to the naughty step before we even told him to go.  He would calculate risk vs. reward before doing something he was not supposed to, and if he felt it was worth it, he’d do it.

Zach was just downright naughty in Mrs. Jenkins’ class.  On a color grading scale, he would receive a “red dot” in his planner daily.  It was always for something little.  He was talking out of turn, not raising his hand, touching a wall in the hallway while standing in line to go to the cafeteria, or distracting other students when it was time to do some real work.  I don’t think a week went by when he did not have at least one red dot in a week.  No method of threatening or punishment worked for us or Mrs. Jenkins.  I would receive nasty-grams home on a consistent basis.

I was at work on a Tuesday, finishing up a report I had to get done in the next hour.  My phone rang, and it was from an area code only associated with the school system, at the time.  I could feel the lump in my throat and my face heating up even before I answered the phone.

“This is Merydith, how can I help you?” I said with trepidation in my voice to the unknown caller on the other end of the line.  “Hi Mrs. Blank, this is Ms. Q, the assistant principal at Zachary’s school.  How are you?”  Was she kidding?  How was I?  I was freaking out!  “I’m well thank you?”  Ms. Q proceeded, “I have Zachary here in my office, he’s fine, but there was an incident in his classroom today.”  You have got to be kidding me.

After lunch on Tuesday, the class went out for their regularly schedule recess, and then made their way back to the classroom.  They were getting ready to do something as a group on the carpet.  Mrs. Jenkins asked everyone to take their assigned place on the carpet and she went to her desk to get the materials she needed for the group lesson.  Evidently she took too long.  Zach saw this opportunity to get a chuckle from his classmates.

Zachary stood up while all of his peers were sitting quietly, criss-cross applesauce on the carpet.  With his rear end stuck out behind him, in a high pitched impressionistic voice, and right hand held high he said, “I’m Mrs. Jenkins.  Raise your hand if you like my butt!”   The crowd went wild.  Mrs. Jenkins had lost all control of the classroom.  She walked over to Zach, snatched him by the arm and walked him straight to Ms. Q’s office.

That was Mrs. Jenkins second and final year of teaching elementary school.  Last I heard she was a nanny for a wealthy family with 2 children and selling an energy drink on the side.  Did I mention she tried to sell us said drink stating it might calm Zach down?  Sure.  The remainder of the school year consisted of Zach fighting for Mrs. Jenkins’ attention and Mrs. Jenkins fighting to stay sane.

So, first grade was basically a wash for Zach.  He stayed up on his academics, and got a thicker school record at the same time.  I have checked several times and have been assured by administrative staff at the school, that elementary records are not permanent.  Let’s hope that’s true.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Latke

When you are the product of an interfaith marriage there are a few perks.  In December, you celebrate two separate holidays of lights.  There is Hanukkah, the true celebration of light, and Christmas, because there are lights on your tree.    The Pollocks called this holiday combination, Hannumas.  Each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, we would all put on our yarmulkes and light the menorah.  We would eat potato pancakes and play with the dreidel, while hoarding our chocolate coins.  For Christmas we never actually acknowledged the existence of the Christian Savior, but Santa was very cool.   Our tree had multicolored lights and all handmade ornaments.  The tree would not have made Martha Stewart proud by any means, but we thought it was a work of art, every year. 

Friends used to think because we celebrated two holidays so close together, we got double the gifts.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.   My always clever mom would spread out the gifts.  We may have gotten a cool toy the first night of Hanukkah, but the next 3 would be more practical, like underwear or pencils.  On Christmas morning, the presents would be piled high under the tree.  They were methodically placed so that we, the kids, could count them to make sure no one got more than the other.  It didn’t matter what the quality of the gift was, as long as the quantity matched.   With that said, we were never a family who did without.  We basically got everything our little hearts desired.  Santa was good to us, despite our/my abhorrent behavior throughout the year.

My parents also received gifts from Santa Claus.  Every year a box wrapped in brown paper would arrive via the US Postal Service with a return address of The North Pole.  The actual postmark was Peabody, MA but we didn’t know anyone who lived in a 100 mile radius of Peabody.  The package would come with a thoughtfully worded letter addressing my mom and dad, with no mention of us children.  The gifts were always exotic.  One year my dad received a full gorilla suit.  Another year he received big fuzzy bear claw slippers and my mother received rhino slippers. They always had their theories, but I do not think they ever confirmed the true identity of their Santa.
      

The presents I gave out were always from the heart.  I would take a walk down to the local drug store where my father had a credit account.  While this privilege was abused year round, the holiday season was particularly convenient for me to purchase items for family, friends, and myself, and put it all on my dad’s bill.  I probably put the owners’ kids through college with the amount I spent in that place.  Actually, I guess I should say my father was their benefactor.  I could pick up anything from holiday tchotchkes, to coffee mugs, to toothpaste.  I would wrap it up and gift it like I had earned the cold hard cash it took to purchase.

The gifts from my siblings were always an unexpected treat.  One year, my sister wrapped a piece of week old sliced American cheese and put it under the tree for me.  By the time I opened it, it could have been used as a weapon.  My brother was always the best at giving gifts.  I fondly remember the year he gave my father a tie.  As my dad opened the box, I could see the excitement in my brother’s eyes.  My father ooh’d and ah’d at the tie, and said, “You know, I really like this tie.  I think I have one very similar upstairs in my closet.”  Turns out, it was the tie from his closet.

Now that I have children of my own, who are also products of an interfaith marriage, we celebrate Hannumas in our home.  Others try to call it different mash-ups.  Chrismakuh, Chrismanukah, Hannukamas.  None of them hold the sentimental value that Hannumas does.  I admit, spreading out gifts over a nine day period (8 for Hanukkah/1 for X-mas) is a tricky task.  Even trickier, is showing our children the importance of being grateful for the things we already have, and understanding there are those who don’t even have the opportunity to celebrate one holiday, let alone two.  I am grateful for all I have been blessed with.  My family and friends are happy and healthy.  I have a solid and fulfilling career.  And if an ipad is in the cards for me, so be it.