3/365: Mrs. C

She was a demon about handwriting, all right, and we were a pack of rebellious fourth-graders.

That was the year I tried, really tried, to conform with the nice popular girls. Since they all had neat, tiny printing, I made mine neat and tiny as well — unfortunately, too tiny to be read in some cases. It was our game.

She must have been furious.

I also recall she wasn’t overly impressed with my cursive. I was one of maybe two left-handers in the entire fourth grade, and the only one in the class, so when they were introducing cursive, I tended to do it in a way my hand could handle. Sometimes it didn’t turn out exactly right. I can only imagine her amusement if I were to send her a carefully penned note today, in the sweeping, curlicued script Aliza mistook for type on her birthday card.

She taught us old sayings, and one sticks with me to this day: “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.” I think I believed her for all of five minutes. Nobody listened to me when I was a kid. So she meant well, but it didn’t work out for me. I hope it worked out better for her.


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