50 for 50: 1978

YEAR: 1978

AGE: Turned 8 on Nov. 6

LOCATION: Chicago, Rascher Avenue

SONGS I LIKED: "Turn to Stone" by ELO; "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty

TV SHOW I WATCHED: "Battlestar Galactica"

CUBS' RECORD: 79-83

I wasn't sure what to write for 1978. This year started and ended with disco, with "Grease" in between (which I wouldn't see until 1980). I started playing T-ball, saw my first Bears game, made my first Communion, and got my first bicycle (which I couldn't figure out how to ride until, again, 1980 -- though I learned on my sister's bike in 1979). 

As I was struggling to come up with a topic today, I thought about third grade today and recalled something hadn't bubbled up in my brain literally for decades. The story isn't happy -- it was somewhat painful -- and it doesn't paint one of my teachers in the most positive light. However, even though years have passed since this life event has crossed my mind, it might have helped shape, just a little bit, the parent I became.

I transferred to St. Eugene's in second grade after we moved to Oriole Park. The primary grades at the school back then didn't change classes, and within each class, three reading groups -- one with kids who were reading ahead of grade level, one with kids that needed extra help, and the middle group that was, well, in between. Despite being a great reader when I was 6, I was placed in the middle group in second grade. That was probably just because I was a new student and it was a safe group to put me in. Today, I would have been assessed and placed accordingly, but that simply wasn't the case in 1977.

Third grade arrives, and I'm still in a middle reading group. At some point in the fall, the teacher -- whose name I'll not say out of respect -- announces to the class that she's moving a student to the higher reading group. But that student wasn't me -- it was another student who was new to second grade, got put in the middle group, then got moved up to the advanced group in third grade.

I was devastated and tried hard not to cry from my desk near the front of the room. Afterward, when we were all working on something at our desks, the teacher noticed I looked upset and asked what was wrong. I just said my eyes were watering.

Here's the other part of this story: the parent-teacher conference, which I think occurred before the snub but maybe was after. Instead of telling my mom what a nice kid I was (and maybe she did, too; I wasn't there), the teacher talked about how I was struggling with simple hand-eye stuff, and that I should play with clay and do other tactile activities to help. Yeah, my handwriting wasn't great and I couldn't color within the lines, but what did that have to do with my reading, and why was that holding me back from the learning I needed? I remember Mom telling me this when she got home, and, maybe for the first time, I felt dumb.

The snub didn't help. I began to believe what everyone had said about our teacher -- the dreaded "She's mean!" That's such a kid thing to say, but in retrospect, it was kind of true. I remember times she just went ballistic on the class and toward individual students. I understand teachers losing it with unruly kids, but there was one time, when another kid told the teacher he knew how to multiply -- before we started learning our multiplication tables -- she angrily replied "No you don't!" as if that was messing up her plan.

I get it -- teaching isn't easy, and teachers try to do the best the can given the circumstances while keeping their sanity. This teacher was young, in her 20s, and I'm sure she was trying to help by explaining to my mom what needed fixing with me. But, 42 years later, it doesn't feel her decisions for those few months were in my best interest. I would work hard to be creative outside of reading and math, only to be met with disappointment and disapproval for my efforts.

Yes, for my 8-year-old ego, not being in that top reading group stung. And I don't blame my parents for not pushing harder -- again, it was a much different time.

Furthermore, I've been in that chair, hearing a teacher tell me how my child is struggling, and it frazzles the parental mind and takes time to process. In the meantime, you start thinking the worst and wondering how bad a parent might be. Today, you work with the teacher and the school to come up with a solution most beneficial for the child to maximize their potential. 

Back then, I think you just listened to the teacher and accepted the recommendations without a fight. That's not being a helicopter parent -- the kind of parent who complains their child got a B or should be allowed to goof off in class (trust me, we've seen enough of that). That's being an advocate for your child to respectfully thrive. Lori and I fought for the boys when we had to, praised teachers who worked with us, and figured out an alternative when they didn't. And that may be the takeaway from all this I applied decades later -- if you have a concern with my child, you better collaborate with us on the solution.

Eventually, my third-grade teacher came around, and in the spring, she moved me to the advanced reading group. I'm guessing that I obviously wasn't being challenged by the middle group's reading plan. Also, we were limited in library time to book levels that corresponded with our reading group, but the librarian noticed I was bringing my own books to read during that time -- books I was getting from the public library and were on a grade level way, way ahead of third grade. Maybe she said something to my teacher.

(Oh, the librarian that year was just a peach, too -- she once made a girl sit in the corner with a dunce cap for talking to a friend. Thankfully, educational principles have evolved ...)

I was so happy to be moved up that I did three weeks of catch-up workbook pages in a weekend to pull even with the higher group. And even though I may sound a little bitter today (seriously, I haven't thought about this in 25 years, at least), 8-year-olds -- unlike adults -- don't feel bitterness when they finally get what they want. I enjoyed the rest of the school year, then after getting the hang of fourth grade, nearly got straight As to finish that year.

I don't begrudge my third-grade teacher. Although I look back and consider her my least favorite teacher at St. Eugene's (even worse than the notorious Mrs. Mueller, who I wouldn't be shocked if, God rest her soul, she's torturing people in hell by making them diagram every sentence in the history of mankind for eternity -- only two diagrams per side of paper!), she ultimately was making decisions she thought would help me, and then made the best decision for me when she finally moved me to the advanced group. I looked her up on LinkedIn, and she's had an accomplished educational career in the four decades since. She was a young teacher in 1978 and, likely, was learning, too -- something else today's parents must take into account.

One last story from this year: The three third-grade classrooms worked on a hallway project in which there would be life-size cutout drawings of Adam and Eve, surrounded by artwork of animals that lived with them in the Garden of Eden. Each student could create their own animal to place on the wall.

I drew and cut out on construction paper an ankylosaurus, thereby unintentionally disproving the Garden of Eden and the whole creation story. My conclusion from all this, and pardon my language: I was just too fucking smart for third grade. Mic drop!