School daze

My kids shocked me the other night.

No, they didn’t clean their rooms without being asked, or say, “Wow, dad, you listen to some really cool music.” But they both insisted to me that they were not required to learn state capitals or the presidents when they were in elementary school.

At first, I thought, this can’t be true. After all, they’re teenagers, and their brains are frequently shrouded in hormonal fog, so their recollections may not always be clear. But then I considered the state of education in the country, and particularly in my home state, and it seems like there are a lot things kids aren’t being taught, including that it’s not polite to show your underwear in public.

When I went to elementary school, it was called grammar school, and I knew all of my state capitals in the first grade. I would show off for adults by rattling off the capital of any state they could throw at me. If you think this skill didn’t get me chicks when I got older – well, you’d be right. That didn’t start happening until I won the regional spelling bee in the 10th grade. Had to beat them off with a stick after that.

My very first crush on an older woman occurred when Miss Neal, my second-grade teacher, brought her guitar to school one day and sang “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” I thought she was so pretty, and her voice was like that of an angel. I still get a little chill when I hear that song on the radio, though Levon Helm’s voice is not nearly as sexy.

Miss Neal’s beauty and grace did not stop her, however, from paddling my butt about every other day. I guess if I was some sort of freak that would have added to her appeal, but all I remember is it hurt. Every teacher at that school in those days had a paddle, and they weren’t afraid to use it. The more sadistic ones would get them specially made, and display the pain-maker prominently in the classroom. One day I’m going to write one of those tortured-soul memoirs that are so popular now and blame all of my problems on the culture of corporal punishment at Beaverbrook Elementary School.

The principal had a leather strap in his office, cementing his position as the head ass-whooper. Miss Roberts, my fourth-grade teacher, would walk down the hallway and grab misbehaving boys by the ear, and twist it in her powerful hands with the Kung-fu grip. And you never saw it coming. One minute, you’re putting a cricket down Winnie Darsey’s pants, and the next you’re on your knees, begging for the sweet release of death.

Another form of cruelty I recall from the sixth grade (there were no middle schools then) was when the math teacher divided her class into two sections, one group on one side of the room, one on the other. It didn’t take long to figure out that it was smart kids on one side, stupid kids on the other. I sort of felt sorry for the stupid kids, and I could see them eyeing me with burning anger, especially after I wiped the floor with them in the flash-card game. I could tell you the answer to “nine times six” in lightning speed. Go ahead, test me.

I’m pretty sure none of this stuff would be allowed today, and it’s probably for the best. The ACLU would come sweeping in, Al Sharpton would organize a march, and Keith Olbermann would call the teachers the “worst persons in the world.” And I don’t want teachers beating my kids with paddles and leather straps. That’s my job.

But would it kill them to learn a little bit about Chester B. Arthur?