What To Do with Karen?

Well, there was all that about my kindergarten experience, if you read my previous post.

I left out the part about being swatted when I left my chair once. I’d never been grabbed and shaken in my life. I was incredulous and scared. I did not leave kindergarten with a high opinion of that teacher whose name I can’t remember.

I entered first grade skeptically. At best.

I’d completed all my kindergarten workbooks, but there had to be more.

My mother claimed I could read by age four. Maybe she was right because I landed in the Red Birds reading group. Teachers thought these generic colors made us academically anonymous, but we all knew who was who. The Red Birds flew through Dick, Jane, and Sally one liners in no time. Okay, the plane flies up, up, up. Our group quickly moved on, on, on.

Here’s what began to happen. Miss Long had me read aloud first in the circle. Then I’d peek ahead at pages, reading quickly through the next story. This cycle repeated daily until I’d finished the book. I never understood why I didn’t get caught. She had to see me. One day my mother explained I had been seen. Miss Long called her and suggested she take me to the public library because I needed a reading challenge.

In the spring, they gave us IQ tests. The principal called my mother to suggest I skip second grade. My parents were supposed to be elated, but they weren’t. Consistently marked U (Unsatisfactory) for “Does Not Play Well With Others,” they reasoned I’d be flailing in deeper water with kids even older.

It’s not that I couldn’t play well. I had a neighborhood friend, but on a loud, frenetic playground, I was overwhelmed, scurrying to the sidelines. I was not a joiner.

While I remained in that school for second through fourth grade, my IQ number followed me like gum stuck to a shoe. Teachers must have been charged with figuring out what to do with Karen because my day was never remotely similar to any other classmate’s.

I became the assistant teacher.

I copied their lessons and diagrams on the blackboard to save them time.

I tutored kids who couldn’t multiply, divide, or spell.

I was the designated leader for whatever group endeavor our row was given.

I took the daily attendance to the office and delivered the lunch count to the cafeteria.

I took the money to the neighborhood market to buy supplies.

I spent hours alone in the library, reading anything I wanted.

I painted whatever still life the teacher arranged for me out in the hall.

I was loaned out to do bulletin boards for other teachers, after I’d finished ours.

I recited the poem for the mothers invited to the afternoon tea.

I was asked to talk about different parts of the country because my family traveled.

I was the narrator in class programs and often wrote the script.

I was singled out to play the bells when our grade sang for the Christmas assembly.

With the best of intentions, they ran a gifted program for me. Only me.

And while I blazed a straight-A trail of academic triumphs, I remained isolated from my own kind. No one in class was ever my real friend. They just turned to me for help whenever I was around.

That U for social interactions shook its finger at me on every report card. I could memorize anything, but I couldn’t find my way into a group of girls. Teachers never saw their hand in that.

The Whole Child concept was unknown back then. Academic knowledge was the battle cry. Apparently I had that under control, even though I was a year younger. I don’t know what my classmates were doing when I was shopping for apples with petty cash. I imagine a classroom of lively chatter. Scattered giggles. Shared secrets.

But I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t given the chance to belong.