Moving in New York in the Depression Period was a common and frequent event. Families were constantly seeking either cheaper rents or a cleaner apartment or both. The effects on children were secondary concerns. I had just begun the first grade when my family moved to a new apartment in a new neighborhood. I entered the class in the new school one week after classes had begun. The teacher, Mrs. McCarthy distributed slips of paper with words written in multilith ink. The words were meant to be memorized for the next class meeting. I had no inkling about the purpose of the lists so I could not respond to the “tests” the next day. Before the end of the week the teacher, fed up with my stupidity dragged me across the hall to another first grade class and dumped me there. The new teacher, Mrs. Roberts, was younger and of a more gentle demeanor. Before too long she asked me to be the window monitor because I was already tall for my age. The window monitor had a long pole with a brass fixture at its end to open or close the windows. Having somehow earned a distinction of having a responsibility changed my life. I suddenly became aware of myself as a person: I was somebody. After that moment I never had a learning problem.
In fact, elementary school was an experience of exemplary conduct: students always sat quietly in their desk seats, were always dressed “properly,” and only spoke when spoken to. We were, in fact, well-behaved children. The only thing I remember from six years of elementary school happened in the fifth grade. One day while the pupils were quietly sitting in the classroom I passed gas with a remarkably loud sound that lasted an interminably long five seconds or so it seemed. I couldn’t believe that trumpet note was coming out of me. No one moved, no one said a thing, not even the teacher. After a moment the silence was broken and everything continued as though nothing untoward had happened. I was mortified, of course, and grateful at the same time because such good manners prevailed in the school at that time.
I was eleven or twelve when I graduated from elementary school, an event that passed without any fanfare. What was earth moving was my assignment to a Junior High School. I suddenly felt like I was a big shot. I was moving up in the world. With very little effort on my part I was elevated to a new status. I think this sense of euphoria was enhanced by the fact that hormones were racing through my body. At twelve I was growing fast accompanied by a sense of enhanced power. The empty lot next to the Junior High School was left in an unhampered natural state with rock outcroppings. I was thrilled to jump from one peak to another: I was Johnny Apple Seed scaling huge mountain chains and that was exciting. In class I was too absorbed in my newfound exultation to pay close attention to the proceedings of the teacher. In elementary school I can’t ever remember being challenged to think. In Junior High I was caught unprepared for that awesome demand. I was expected to read books, whole books, and to write essays. One assignment asked students to write about the pros and cons of fire. I didn’t have the slightest idea of where to begin. Fortunately I had a friend who was two years older who had passed this frontier. One evening while he was taking his bath I sat on the pooper with note pad in my lap. My friend rattled off the obvious points: fire was good because it provided heat when the weather was cold, heat to cook food and light in the night time, while fire was bad because it could destroy homes and hurt people. Why hadn’t I thought of these reasons? The world of thinking was revealed…at last. What a quantum leap for me. There was no going back to innocence. I could see I would forevermore have to cope with existence on my own, come up with explanations about experience that stood up to reality. What an awesome discovery. Unfortunately this revelation came just a little too late to salvage my first semester in Junior High School. I was falling further and further back and in the end I was failing. This reality hit me like a ton of bricks, devastating. The prospect of being left back was so mortifying. My mother came to speak to the teacher and finally I did also, to beg to be advanced with a sincere promise to work harder. The teacher relented. I got to complete the second semester without problems and understood education was a serious business.
My family moved again and I went to another Junior High. The new neighborhood was less affluent than before and had a mixed population. I’m not sure if these facts had a bearing on my progress in school but soon I found that I was excelling in all subjects and sitting in the front row of the class. I got beat up a couple of times after school and had to run like hell to avoid unpleasant encounters as well.
Nothing could discourage my upward trajectory now.
I had been aware of drawing and art as an activity of choice. The art teacher in the last year of Junior High recognized my interest and gave me great latitude to pursue my fantasies. She actually helped me to prepare a portfolio which I presented to a committee for admittance to an elite high school for specialized study in music or art. I was accepted and the future of my life in art opened before me.