I was just reading an article in the New York Times by Rik Smits on
left-handedness. Boy, he sure hit the proverbial nail on the head. I am
living proof of that. I knew exactly what he was talking about since my life
spans the times when being left-handedness was condemned and is now supposedly
celebrated. Or, at least, tolerated. You see, I am a southpaw; I am as
"southern" a southpaw there is. I'm so left-handed I joking say that if I must
have a stroke, I hope it occurs in my "left brain" so it only effects my right
side. I won't miss it. Then, last year when the orthepedic surgeon said I had
a small tear in my left shoulder's rotator cuff (don't swing on the jungle gym
at 70 with your grandmunchkin), I gladly offered up my right shoulder for
surgery as a surrogate.
Seriously, when I was in first grade at New York's P.S. 160 in 1946, I
was deemed a menace, possessed by Satan himself (my Susie says I do have a
little devil in me). Literally!!! It seems hard to believe, but Mrs. Satchel,
a diminutive, not very nice person who always had a scowl on her face and in
her heart (if she had a heart), who looked like she had just stepped out from
an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus, took it upon herself to take the lead in the
fight against the dark force that was controlling me. With the passion of a
not-to-be-deterred fanatic on a mission, for her there was no such thing as
going too far. She saw only weakness and danger in my strong side. For her,
nothing good was associated with the left side. To put the proverbial fear of
God in both me and the other students, especially during penmanship, she would
point her bony finger at me, with fire in her eyes and threat in her voice,
angrily saying to the other students, "Do you want to be evil like Schmier?"
She used that word, "evil," over and over and over again against me. I was
only seven years old! It was unmerciful persecution.
I vividly still remember the times she would rap my knuckles or the
palm of my left hand with the heavy whacks of a wooden rule in her struggle, in
her words, "to drive out the demons." When I wouldn't compromise and write
with my left hand as if it was contorted by a twisting muscular constriction
that feigned being right-handed, she got angrier, more determined, and hit me
harder. Many was the time I would come home hiding my swollen, bloodied left
hand in my pant or coat pocket, run to the bathroom to pour cold water over it
and wash the blood from my knuckles or palm, and then keep it from view, hoping
my either mother nor especially my father wouldn't notice. It was sheer
brutality.
One day, my older brother saw my bloodied knuckles and asked if I had
been a fight. I made the mistake of telling him about Mrs. Satchel. He and I
weren't close. He ratted me out, telling my father that I had told him that I
had gotten into a street fight. Showing dad my bloodied knuckles, in my
defense and since he was astute enough to notice I didn't have any other cut or
welts on either my right hand or face, I had to tell him about Mrs. Satchel.
Now, my father was a stern, demanding man. He was controlling and
authoritarian, but in his way he was extraordinarily loving. He never laid a
finger on me or my siblings, and scorned any type of corporal punishment. His
eyes, stentorian voice, and force of personality were enough to cower anyone.
The next day, against my silent wishes, dad went to school with me. He and Mrs
Satchel had a talk. I watched and listened. It must have made a heck of an
impression on my young mind and soul because I vividly remember that meeting
almost word-for-word as if it happened only a few minutes ago.
To sum it up, Mrs. Satchel wouldn't back down. To this very day, I can
see her now telling my father why she walloped me so hard that she had drawn
blood--on more than one occasion. I saw my father's eyes when he heard that
this one incident wasn't an anomaly. She didn't notice his lips tightening and
went on. She explained that I had a disease that demanded curing; I was
possessed by a demon who required an exorcism; I was a backward child; I was
plagued with mental, physical, and psychological abnormalities; I needed
special treatment. She told my father that I didn't belong in a regular class;
I was rebelliousness; I was stubborn; I was a non-conformist; I was clumsy; I
was goofy; I was messy; I was malicious; I was unorthodox; I was a deviant; I
was sinister; I was a challenge to authority. And, I had to be forced into
line. About the only thing she left out was the cliche that hurting me hurt
her more. No apologies. No second thoughts. It was medieval.
Now, if Mrs. Satchel, who had made me into the embodiment of all those
negatives associated with being left handed, was herself the embodiment of all
the biases against left handers. I am sure that if she were alive today, she'd
say she had cared. I would say that she was selfishly careless with her
uncaring type of caring, loveless with her type of loving, disrespectful with
her type of respect, that she had a passion that lacked both empathy and
compassion, and that she was arrogant and self-righteous. She could not
understand my father's firm disagreement and order not to touch me again.
After all, she was being merciful; she was being responsible; she was being a
healer; she was being helpful; she was ridding me of my sinister ways; she was
fighting to change my "negative character." God, to this day, some 65 years
later, I remember the exact words she used in her defense: "We all should pray
for him and fight for his soul by driving out his evil." To which my father
firmly replied, "He's not the evil one in this room." I think it finally sunk
in that dad was a force with which to be reckoned.
After that conversation, the ruler never came down on my left hand
again, but it had left its scaring mark, Nevertheless, the verbal assaults or
what she called "godly discipline" continued. I won't tell you about the
number of times Mrs. Satchel accused me of cheating on classroom assignments
and tests. I must admit that it did seem that I was looking at other students'
work because I had to turn my body awkwardly and uncomfortably, and even achy,
to write on those damnable right-handed desks. She would yell at me for all to
hear to "give in," to "stop trying to be different," "be normal," and to write
with the "right" "godly" hand like "every other person." I was the odd kid
out. Because of her, I was mercilessly taunted on the playground and in the
lunchroom. She even did it, but, as Paul Harvey would have said, that's the
rest of the story. I do remember that often, if wasn't for my father,
sometimes I wished she would hit me with the ruler rather than assault me with
those words. It was barbarism.
Then, two decades later, came the social, cultural, and political
revolutions of the '60s that fought for women, homosexuals, African-American,
and student rights. A little known off-shoot of those battles was the
quasi-successful fight for lefty rights. I was free--kinda. Today, I am seen
in a bit more kinder light, but I am still a battle ground. You should read
some of the supposed "scientific left-handed facts" about me. Google them.
Compared to right handers, I am angrier, a better leader, more embarrassed,
more prone to illness, more of a boozer, more artistic, more fearful, better at
sports, will have a shorter lifespan, more fearful, more imaginative, sloppier
(Susie would vigorously agree with this one), shyer, and more creative. And,
it goes on.
The subtle prejudices are still there. It's still an adventure to find
left-handed tools; it's still tough to use a right-handed scissors or cutting
knife; a left-handed classroom desk was and still is a rarity; and, I still
have to contort my body to sign a fixed, right-facing credit card swipe
terminal at a check-out counter.
When I heard at a parent-teacher evening, my left-handed son's second
grade teacher tell me that we should "convince" him of the "wrongness" in using
his left hand and get him to use his "'right' hand," that moment in the
mid-1970s took me back to those days in the dark ages of the mid-1940s. True,
she didn't invoke Divine sanction of her attitude. But, as I firmly told her
to leave him alone and to deal with his left-handedness, and don't either
pressure him or to punish him, I sighed silently to myself, "At least they're
no longer using a ruler."
What's the point of this story? I have never forgotten Mrs. Satchel.
She is my warning memory of the consequences of being toxic rather therapeutic,
and as Abraham Mazlow might say, she was as toxic as they come. She is my
constant reminder that, as Haim Ginott wrote:
I am the decisive element in the classroom.
It is my personal approach that creates the climate.
It is my daily mood that makes the weather.
As a teacher I possess tremendous power to make a child's life miserable or
joyous.
I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration.
I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal.
So, I am always on high alert to what I say and do, to how I feel; to
my attitude; to my body language and vocal tones; to my facial expression; to
keeping sharp my senses of mindfulness, otherness, awareness, and alertness; to
seeing more than mere looking and to listening more than merely hearing; to
practicing my RO6; to unconditionally loving, believing in, and having hope for
in each and every student; and, to being the guy who is
there--unconditionally--to help each student help her/himself become the person
each is capable of becoming.
Make it a good day
-Louis-
Louis Schmier
http://www.therandomthoughts.edublogs.org
Department of History http://www.therandomthoughts.com
Valdosta State University
Valdosta, Georgia 31698 /\ /\ /\ /\
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(O) 229-333-5947 /^\\/ \/ \ /\/\__ / \ /
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(C) 229-630-0821 / \/ \_ \/ / \/ /\/ / \
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mountains,\ /\
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hills" - / \_
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