Catching up with 4th grade, I must rewind a bit. I left off saying we were headed to California but I missed a couple of details that help explain how and why we were leaving the beautiful projects behind, along with my super ball, my boomerang, my new bike and practically everything else we owned. I can't say I was upset about leaving school- by the way, I now remember the school name: Martin Van Buren-, hoping (and expecting) a better experience out west in the land of wonder. Leave it to a 4th grader to look for adventure where only stress and upheaval exist.
Why move? Dad was tired of Chicago and wanted a change, I guess. I hadn't a clue whether other reasons were in play. I was well aware, though, that our house in Wonder Lake had sold, and we got over ten thousand dollars and it all got spent on things like Mediterranean furniture, a matador print, Mediterranean wall sconces and bunches of other stuff, only to have dad want to box everything up for mom's parents to sell, including my bike, so we could travel to California. Apparently, he had a line on a management job at a McDonald's in, I think, Anaheim, but our first weeks more likely resembled the reality that he was looking for a job. I need say, to accommodate the trip, my parents bought a brand new car, probably their first, a 1968 Buick Skylark Convertible, maroon with white top, white interior, equipped with an 8 track player and a demo tape. I don't remember them playing anything other than the demo- soft jazz and seagulls and turf- but that's not to say mom didn't buy a Tom Jones or Engelbert Humperdinck tape that I blocked out. Anyway, we rented a little U-haul trailer and rigged it up to the new bumper on our new car, filled it with what I know not and we headed west, leaving the bulk of our lives, including everything Mediterranean, for my grandparents to sell- including my new bike, which they sold, whatever money collected destined to disappear into the family abyss.
The actual trip was more anticipation than vacation. I was convinced, with help, that California was as close to heaven as was humanly possible- beautiful weather, palm trees, the mountains, the ocean- where life would begin for all of us, where all marital problems (and my parents had plenty) would be solved and the future was bright. I had it in my head I would be able to run out the front door and climb a mountain, chase coconuts from palm trees and skip through the back yard right into the Pacific. Reality trumps imagination.
We arrived in the Los Angeles area with no place to live. After driving around for an undetermined amount of time, we found a motel, 2 levels, the kind of motor lodge where you drive into a center court and find yourself surrounded with rooms. I don't remember how dad managed to park the car and U-haul, but I do recall the 5 of us crammed into one room for at least two weeks while better accommodations could be found. Meanwhile, we had to enroll in the local school.
Tweedy Elementary School- 9724 Pinehurst Avenue South Gate California is still in existence! I Googled it. State testing rate it a 4 of 10 compared to schools statewide, and I'm not surprised. What does surprise me is that the school I attended, with a horrific experience, for two weeks in 1968 has not been bulldozed for decades. Maybe the state of education was universally poor that year. After exiting Tweedy, my school experience in California was better than subsequent years after leaving, three years or so later.
What experience could be so bad that a mere two weeks in 4th grade remains indelibly etched on the inside of my skull as I approach 54 years old? Let me tell ya......... I had just left a Chicagoland elementary school whose teachers proved to find themselves no match for their students. I even spent time with a frustrated principal who confided in me, nine years old, that quality teachers were scarce. I was always good in school until the later years when I found it more fun to excel in subjects I liked, blowing off those that didn't interest me (Steve Jobs felt the same way and look where it got him). I was reading at four, doing math at five, knew my geography and could spell most anything. I credit Greenwood School in Wonder Lake, IL. for it's "ahead of its time" progressive approach to education, specifically, my kindergarten teacher, who's name escapes me (Miss Holmes?). My history and self confidence carried me as I entered the strange world of Tweedy.
My mom checked me in to the school on a day toward the end of March, 1968. Due to the registration process, I was late for my first class. The teacher ushered me to an open desk, not bothering to welcome me or to announce me to the other kids. I learned that, unlike back in Illinois, I would be changing classrooms for a couple of subjects. Too bad I didn't know which ones. I also found out that in this school district kids started kindergarten at four years old, which put me at a year older, and by definition, a dummy who must have been held back. While kids at that age didn't care much, my teachers found my age reason enough to pre-judge my intelligence. I managed, as a result of protocol ignorance, to confirm their judgments. A brief example: On some days, unknown to me, spelling tests were conducted covering words learned the previous week- before I arrived. Sheets of lined paper-you know, the stuff that looks and feels like newspaper- were handed out by the teacher, who soon started dictating spelling words. I was given no specific instructions so I wrote my name at the top and spelled the words down the sheet. I can state unequivocally that I spelled every word correctly. Easy as pie (pie might have been one of the words). Since I was at the back of the room, I handed my sheet to the girl in front of me who frowned and said "you didn't do yours right". I don't remember replying, but I do remember seeing others' papers folded in half vertically. Not until the next day, when we got our tests back, graded, did I understand the significance of a vertically folded paper. I learned that I not only needed to fold the test properly, but that I had incorrectly titled the page. Apparently I needed to provide more than my name at the top in order to avoid any confusion over which Tracy Boettcher was responsible for this particular assignment. I was happy to comply with the teachers wishes as long as I knew what they were. I was less than happy to find that I received a zero on the spelling test due to improper structure. Having overruled a teacher some months earlier, I strode to the front of class and asked why I had a zero when I knew that every word was spelled correctly. The answer I got was astounding. She gave me a zero because I hadn't folded my paper and added class or teacher or something else, all inconsequential to me. She actually told me she didn't know if I had spelled my words correctly because she never looked at them. I was then shown how to properly title and fold a spelling test. End of discussion.
Recess: The learning curve at Tweedy was short at best. Learn how they want things done (don't expect help here) and follow their procedure. The content of their education was well below any challenge I might have been looking for. Recess was a different animal. I found out the first day that their recess time was rigidly structured. Group A reported to the four square area, Group B to the tether balls, Group C to dodge ball and so on. Every kid had a place.....except me. I was never assigned to a group. I didn't even know they had groups until I got in line for tether ball and was admonished for even thinking of invading their party. So I wandered around until a recess monitor- likely a teacher based on her demeanor- snagged me and told me to get back with my group, to which I replied that I had no group to which she reminded me that I was assigned a group at the beginning of the year to which I replied that I was going to school in Illinois until recently to which she huffed and grabbed my arm and injected me into the four square group, who hated me because I sucked because I had never played four square in my life.
The final week and the last straw: FYI- On April 4th, 1968, a Thursday, Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis. Since my mom and I had discussed MLK in the past, I probably knew more about him than most fourth graders; my instincts told me most students at Tweedy had never heard of him, possibly a few teachers shared in their ignorance. Well, the news of his death seemed to me to be of significant importance, so when mom pulled up to the school to drop me off the next day (I remember she had the top down) the first thing I noticed (really, truly) was that the school flag was not at half mast. I asked mom why and she thought maybe they just forgot. At the time I didn't know that "half mast" was generally reserved for military observances. Mom said I should simply ask the principal- so I did. I entered his office for the first time. He, of course, had no idea who I was, but politely asked what he could do for me, a 47 inch tall scrawny fourth grader. I wasted no time with small talk. I asked him why the flag was not at half mast. He looked at me blankly and asked "why should it be?". I told him Martin Luther King was killed, something I'm sure he already knew. He looked surprised, maybe even amazed, but soon gained his composure and said "well, I'll look into that". He never asked my name but he did say thank you as I left. I was late for class. I got into some kind of trouble. The flag was at half mast when mom picked me up that afternoon. I attended Tweedy for only a few more days the following week. We moved again----- but that's another story.
Why move? Dad was tired of Chicago and wanted a change, I guess. I hadn't a clue whether other reasons were in play. I was well aware, though, that our house in Wonder Lake had sold, and we got over ten thousand dollars and it all got spent on things like Mediterranean furniture, a matador print, Mediterranean wall sconces and bunches of other stuff, only to have dad want to box everything up for mom's parents to sell, including my bike, so we could travel to California. Apparently, he had a line on a management job at a McDonald's in, I think, Anaheim, but our first weeks more likely resembled the reality that he was looking for a job. I need say, to accommodate the trip, my parents bought a brand new car, probably their first, a 1968 Buick Skylark Convertible, maroon with white top, white interior, equipped with an 8 track player and a demo tape. I don't remember them playing anything other than the demo- soft jazz and seagulls and turf- but that's not to say mom didn't buy a Tom Jones or Engelbert Humperdinck tape that I blocked out. Anyway, we rented a little U-haul trailer and rigged it up to the new bumper on our new car, filled it with what I know not and we headed west, leaving the bulk of our lives, including everything Mediterranean, for my grandparents to sell- including my new bike, which they sold, whatever money collected destined to disappear into the family abyss.
The actual trip was more anticipation than vacation. I was convinced, with help, that California was as close to heaven as was humanly possible- beautiful weather, palm trees, the mountains, the ocean- where life would begin for all of us, where all marital problems (and my parents had plenty) would be solved and the future was bright. I had it in my head I would be able to run out the front door and climb a mountain, chase coconuts from palm trees and skip through the back yard right into the Pacific. Reality trumps imagination.
We arrived in the Los Angeles area with no place to live. After driving around for an undetermined amount of time, we found a motel, 2 levels, the kind of motor lodge where you drive into a center court and find yourself surrounded with rooms. I don't remember how dad managed to park the car and U-haul, but I do recall the 5 of us crammed into one room for at least two weeks while better accommodations could be found. Meanwhile, we had to enroll in the local school.
Tweedy Elementary School- 9724 Pinehurst Avenue South Gate California is still in existence! I Googled it. State testing rate it a 4 of 10 compared to schools statewide, and I'm not surprised. What does surprise me is that the school I attended, with a horrific experience, for two weeks in 1968 has not been bulldozed for decades. Maybe the state of education was universally poor that year. After exiting Tweedy, my school experience in California was better than subsequent years after leaving, three years or so later.
What experience could be so bad that a mere two weeks in 4th grade remains indelibly etched on the inside of my skull as I approach 54 years old? Let me tell ya......... I had just left a Chicagoland elementary school whose teachers proved to find themselves no match for their students. I even spent time with a frustrated principal who confided in me, nine years old, that quality teachers were scarce. I was always good in school until the later years when I found it more fun to excel in subjects I liked, blowing off those that didn't interest me (Steve Jobs felt the same way and look where it got him). I was reading at four, doing math at five, knew my geography and could spell most anything. I credit Greenwood School in Wonder Lake, IL. for it's "ahead of its time" progressive approach to education, specifically, my kindergarten teacher, who's name escapes me (Miss Holmes?). My history and self confidence carried me as I entered the strange world of Tweedy.
My mom checked me in to the school on a day toward the end of March, 1968. Due to the registration process, I was late for my first class. The teacher ushered me to an open desk, not bothering to welcome me or to announce me to the other kids. I learned that, unlike back in Illinois, I would be changing classrooms for a couple of subjects. Too bad I didn't know which ones. I also found out that in this school district kids started kindergarten at four years old, which put me at a year older, and by definition, a dummy who must have been held back. While kids at that age didn't care much, my teachers found my age reason enough to pre-judge my intelligence. I managed, as a result of protocol ignorance, to confirm their judgments. A brief example: On some days, unknown to me, spelling tests were conducted covering words learned the previous week- before I arrived. Sheets of lined paper-you know, the stuff that looks and feels like newspaper- were handed out by the teacher, who soon started dictating spelling words. I was given no specific instructions so I wrote my name at the top and spelled the words down the sheet. I can state unequivocally that I spelled every word correctly. Easy as pie (pie might have been one of the words). Since I was at the back of the room, I handed my sheet to the girl in front of me who frowned and said "you didn't do yours right". I don't remember replying, but I do remember seeing others' papers folded in half vertically. Not until the next day, when we got our tests back, graded, did I understand the significance of a vertically folded paper. I learned that I not only needed to fold the test properly, but that I had incorrectly titled the page. Apparently I needed to provide more than my name at the top in order to avoid any confusion over which Tracy Boettcher was responsible for this particular assignment. I was happy to comply with the teachers wishes as long as I knew what they were. I was less than happy to find that I received a zero on the spelling test due to improper structure. Having overruled a teacher some months earlier, I strode to the front of class and asked why I had a zero when I knew that every word was spelled correctly. The answer I got was astounding. She gave me a zero because I hadn't folded my paper and added class or teacher or something else, all inconsequential to me. She actually told me she didn't know if I had spelled my words correctly because she never looked at them. I was then shown how to properly title and fold a spelling test. End of discussion.
Recess: The learning curve at Tweedy was short at best. Learn how they want things done (don't expect help here) and follow their procedure. The content of their education was well below any challenge I might have been looking for. Recess was a different animal. I found out the first day that their recess time was rigidly structured. Group A reported to the four square area, Group B to the tether balls, Group C to dodge ball and so on. Every kid had a place.....except me. I was never assigned to a group. I didn't even know they had groups until I got in line for tether ball and was admonished for even thinking of invading their party. So I wandered around until a recess monitor- likely a teacher based on her demeanor- snagged me and told me to get back with my group, to which I replied that I had no group to which she reminded me that I was assigned a group at the beginning of the year to which I replied that I was going to school in Illinois until recently to which she huffed and grabbed my arm and injected me into the four square group, who hated me because I sucked because I had never played four square in my life.
The final week and the last straw: FYI- On April 4th, 1968, a Thursday, Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis. Since my mom and I had discussed MLK in the past, I probably knew more about him than most fourth graders; my instincts told me most students at Tweedy had never heard of him, possibly a few teachers shared in their ignorance. Well, the news of his death seemed to me to be of significant importance, so when mom pulled up to the school to drop me off the next day (I remember she had the top down) the first thing I noticed (really, truly) was that the school flag was not at half mast. I asked mom why and she thought maybe they just forgot. At the time I didn't know that "half mast" was generally reserved for military observances. Mom said I should simply ask the principal- so I did. I entered his office for the first time. He, of course, had no idea who I was, but politely asked what he could do for me, a 47 inch tall scrawny fourth grader. I wasted no time with small talk. I asked him why the flag was not at half mast. He looked at me blankly and asked "why should it be?". I told him Martin Luther King was killed, something I'm sure he already knew. He looked surprised, maybe even amazed, but soon gained his composure and said "well, I'll look into that". He never asked my name but he did say thank you as I left. I was late for class. I got into some kind of trouble. The flag was at half mast when mom picked me up that afternoon. I attended Tweedy for only a few more days the following week. We moved again----- but that's another story.
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