Motor Mouth
When my sisters and I were young, my dad worked for a company that had an office in Phoenix, Arizona. This sometimes timed up so that we could go with him on a work trip over the spring break.
The summer before I started grade 2, we moved into what would become our childhood home. With a new move, came a new school. But by March Break that year, I was pretty well settled with a good friend group. Admittedly, friends were made pretty easily at that age - you just had to be willing to share your good snacks at recess.
Still, with this confidence I decided to bring a souvenir from our trip to Arizona to show these friends. A vacuum sealed pack of ‘gemstones’ I had bought with my allowance money from a ghost town we visited on a day trip.
In retrospect, this ‘ghost town’ was clearly a staged tourist attraction, but little 7-year-old me was absolutely entranced by the women in long dresses (a recurrent theme in my life!), horses tied to posts, random shootouts in the red dirt-lined ‘streets’. All kinds of fascinating kitsch. One trip to the gift shop you had to walk through in order to leave, and I had my gemstones - various shades of quartz and amethyst. Each one shiny and treasured.
The only real challenge I had transitioning to a new school that year, was the teacher. She was simply: mean. One of those teachers who you had no clue why they had chosen the profession, given how much they seemed to hate children.
Somehow, she noticed me showing off my gemstones to friends at lunch. When we came back, never one to miss an opportunity to humiliate a student she suggested I get in front of the class to talk about my trip.
This, of course had the potential to embarrass me in two ways - forcing me into public speaking and on a subject for which I hadn’t prepared. But I knew I couldn’t demur.
I slowly shuffled to the front of the class. Where to start? I held up my little package of gemstones and started talking about the ghost town, the horses, the dresses, the candy sticks in the gift shop that came in a multitude of flavours. That you could press a penny in a machine and it would make a little pendant.
I looked back at the teacher, but she never told me how long to speak, and didn’t give me any indication that I was done - so I kept going. I had a rapt audience. Anything that kept them from doing actual school work was welcome. They urged me on.
Emboldened, I started describing the cactus plants, how big they were in real life. Dotting the desert landscape looking like men with their hands up. How the dirt was red! And the heat was dry, nothing like our sticky summers. Some people went hot air ballooning. Also, my sister and I bought a scorpion and tarantula in glass cases from the hotel shop, even though my mom was grossed out.
On and on I went, until from the teacher: ‘Wow, do you ever stop talking?’
‘Class, did you know that Ruth was such a Motor Mouth?’
‘You know what, I think that’s a good name for her. Class, feel free to call Ruth ‘Motor Mouth’ from now on.’
This wasn’t the first time she had done something like this. Upon learning that two girls had made an ‘I hate Laura’ club, her solution was to make a teacher-led ‘I hate Stephanie and Jessica club’ and make participation mandatory for the entire class.
Still, I was humiliated. Cheeks burning, I slid back to my desk and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the day. When I got home, I shoved the gemstone package far back into a desk drawer. I never wanted to see it again.
For the rest of the school year, I rarely spoke in class.
A few years later, she was supplying teaching after a maternity leave, and was substituting for our grade 6 class. I wasn’t there that day. Once a week, I went to Unionville High School for a gifted program. There was a note in my file not to mark me absent.
‘So, the Motor Mouth turned out to be gifted.’ ‘Anyone else gifted?’
After a lengthy silence, my friend put up his hand to ask to go to the bathroom.
‘Well, I know it’s not you.’
We were in grade 6 now. Not so easily cowed by a teacher, and definitely not a substitute. She no longer had any power over us.
‘Shut up’, one of the students said. ‘Yeah, just shut up and stop being so mean’ chimed in another.
In the retelling to me the next day, it was a bold tale of revenge. They told her off, and this time, it was the teacher who said nothing for the rest of the day.
I knew I was probably hearing some embellishment, but I didn’t care. I thrilled over each version. Share your cookies with kids in grade 2 and they will go into the trenches with you for life.
When I got home, I rummaged around in my drawers until I found the gemstone package. I put it out to display on my desk. I was glad I still had it.
I guess I was fortunate Ruth, as I had supportive teachers throughout my educational journey. I am still in contact with a couple via Facebook and texting.
One in particular changed my life by asking me to help coach a 5 & 6th grade basketball team at my former school after he learned I had been cut from the HS freshman team. I accepted the offer and ended up coaching at various levels for 48 years. I was also cut from my sophomore and varsity teams after trying out.
Making friends at 6 or 7 years of age was easy and I've kept a couple of those throughout my life. A true blessing. I'm glad they supported. I hope you still have those gemstones.
You write beautifully. Thanks for sharing.
I had a high school English teacher who was just a terrible person. As the kid who was bullied by others in my class, I would report problems to this woman who just brushed me off and told me to sit down. For a period of time, a girl in the class would sit behind me and write on the back of my neck in black Sharpie pen and said teacher would do nothing. Finally, upon arriving at class one morning, I told this instructor I was not responsible for what I did to stop this girl from her daily writings. Again told to sit down, I just waited. My wait was rewarded with a renewed attempt at writing on my neck, only this time I turned in one fluid motion, swung my fist, connected and broke her nose.
The teacher, of course, denied having been told anything. She waged a war to have me expelled as a problem child who needed help. My father, God bless him, waged an equally fierce war against her as he knew I was telling the truth. He couldn't understand why this woman had gone to battle, until finally meeting her face to face.
This woman and her then fiancee apparently approached my father about being married in my father's church (Dad was a UCC minister). Since the woman was, at the time, not yet divorced, he refused. She held a grudge ever since. When I arrived in her English class, her revenge was hatched.
Dad's war was as ruthless and intense as could be possible from a 74-year old minister. It resulted in her being terminated by the town for cause. And while she eventually hooked on with another city to teach, the point was made.
And what happened to the girl who's nose I broke? I honestly don't know as I haven't kept in touch with classmates, nor do I want to. But that's a story for another time.