This essay is dedicated to all the teachers, parents and students, who face one of the biggest challenges in our country’s history as this school year begins. Not since the polio epidemic of the 1950s and the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, have we had a more dire situation regarding the health and welfare of our nation’s schoolchildren. We are living in a time of unparalleled uncertainty.
Tough days lie ahead. But the ongoing triad of teachers, parents and students will prevail and learning will happen. How am I able to be so sure of that? Let me share my experience and end by connecting it to the present time.
I began teaching in the 1960s, a decade with challenges of its own. Unforeseen tragedies rocked the world. My first three teaching jobs reflected that time of social upheaval and change.
My first position was teaching first graders on an Indian reservation in North Dakota where displaced Native American and white ranchers’ kids became classmates. From there I went to a suburban army post setting where Fort Carson dads were only a phone call away from being sent to serve in the Viet Nam War. I ended the decade at a predominantly black inner-city school in Colorado Springs named after Helen Hunt Jackson, an activist for Native American rights.
In each instance, I had the same goal. I wanted the children to get to know and respect each other, to work together and learn not just from the teacher, but from each other. What better way to accomplish this goal than by starting each day with “Show and Tell?”
1961
New Town, North Dakota
Fort Berthold Indian Reservation
I graduated with my teaching certificate from Minot State Teachers College in Minot, North Dakota, at the age of 19. At that time in North Dakota, teachers were allowed to teach in the elementary grades with a two-year certificate. Teaching high school required a four-year degree. My roommate and I had no trouble getting positions. Our interviews were done on the phone, and we chose New Town because salaries in the western part of the state began at $3400 per year, while the eastern part of the state started at $2900 per year. We headed west in the direction of the big bucks.
New Town was literally that—a new town, a mere 10 years old in 1961. The completion of the Garrison Dam Missouri River Project flooded the towns of Sanish and Van Hook and the Indian villages of Elbowoods, Beaver Creek, Shell Creek, Charging Eagle, Nishu, Red Butte, Independence, and Lucky Mound. Inhabitants of these towns and villages saw their homes and history disappear forever under the waves of the 600-square-mile Lake Sakawkawea reservoir. The third largest man-made lake in the United States had a story behind its formation darker than the deep water, but I started my teaching career knowing nothing of it.
The public school in which I taught bordered the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation, home of the Three Affiliated Tribes—the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara. These were farming people who had banded together centuries before to protect themselves from the marauding Sioux. Some of the Native American children attended the Bureau of Indian Affairs government schools, but many of the families whose towns had been flooded, moved into New Town. My class was about half Anglo and half Native American. Completely ignorant of Native American culture, I blazed ahead with what I knew. That meant every day started with Show and Tell.
Episode 1
“New Shirt New Pants”
My Anglo children were the expected mix of outgoing and shy. But my Native American children were all reticent about coming to the front of the room and speaking. Many had never interacted with white children before, to say nothing of having a white teacher. Donna Lone Wolf hid her head under the flip top of her desk, if I so much as looked in her direction. My Native children remained the audience for their Anglo classmates.
But one day, when his row was called, Adelbert Lone Bear eased out of his seat and walked toward the front of the room. He came up slowly, head held high and his reason for joining those in the front was evident. He was wearing brand new jeans made of heavy stiff denim that rustled as he walked. A new blue plaid flannel shirt topped off his outfit.
When Adelbert’s turn came, he beamed and said in his soft husky voice, “I got new shirt, new pants.” We all commented on how nice they were and how good they looked on him. Adelbert swished stiffly back to his seat basking in the glow of our admiration.
The next day, Adelbert, attired in the same wonderful outfit, came up again for Show and Tell. “New shirt, new pants.” He said touching his chest and his thighs. Again, we admired them. Every day that week Adelbert repeated his Show and Tell and every day we appreciated his attire.
The next Monday Adelbert came up for Show and Tell. The new clothes had been washed over the weekend and were not so stiff. This time Adelbert announced factually, without his smile, “New shirt, new pants” and returned briskly to his seat. As the week wore on, it seemed that Show and Tell was becoming a burden to Adelbert. When I called his row, he’d heave a big sigh, but dutifully come up and say, “New shirt, new pants.”
By the end of the week, Adelbert, a boy of few words to begin with, eliminated the “tell” part of his presentation. When his turn came, he thumped his chest and his thighs. It was enough. We all knew what it meant. The class nodded and murmured, “Nice.”
The third Monday Adelbert appeared again in the clothes that had been washed a second time. When I called his row, he stayed at his seat. His classmates, thinking perhaps he hadn’t heard, reminded him: “Adelbert!” “Go, go!” “Your turn!” “New shirt, new pants,” they prompted. But in spite of encouragement coming in stage whispers from all parts of the room, Adelbert looked down and shook his head. In his judgment the pants and shirt were no longer new. His days of Show and Tell had come to an end.
* * *
During the next two years I learned more than I ever taught. I learned of the culture that had been destroyed by the creation of the dam. The tribe called it “The Flood.” Every person could point to the place beneath the dark waves that had been their home, their school, the hospital, the cemetery where their loved ones were buried.
The three peaceful farming tribes had been self-sufficient farmers of the rich Missouri River bottomland for centuries. They preserved the cultural heritage of their ancestors in language, art, music and ceremonies. They were the very people that gave Lewis and Clark shelter and food through the long winter of 1804, without which, the explorers would have surely perished.
The relocation put them “on top” literally left high and dry on land too arid for farming. Indifferent to the cultural genocide this relocation was causing, the government furnished food subsidies, mainly sugar and white flour, to replace the healthy home-grown food the people had lived on for generations. This led to the development of diabetes, a condition never known before this time. Loss of the spiritual support and meaning of life that their culture had provided, led some to drown their pain in alcoholism. This eye-witnessing of unrepentant injustice would influence my beliefs and actions for the rest of my life.
1965
Security, Colorado
Widefield Elementary School
Security Colorado got its name from its location near the army post, Fort Carson. It began as a housing project for families of soldiers who would find it advantageous to be close to the post, in the event they would be needed to ensure the security of the country.
By the time I began teaching there in 1965, the town had grown and the school district had a high school, two junior highs and five elementary schools. I taught first grade in the original elementary school, Widefield Elementary. The community at that time resembled an episode from Leave it to Beaver, just a step above Dick and Jane. If Dick and Jane and Beaver were before your time, I’ll remind you that Ward Cleaver who very much resembled Dick and Jane’s “Father,” dashed out the door with his briefcase every morning, leaving June Cleaver, aka ”Mother,” at home in her apron and high heels to take care of the house and raise the kids. The Security scenario was similar, except Mom ditched the high heels and apron and Dad donned his army uniform.
For a new teacher with 30 six-year-olds, these hovering helicopter moms were a teacher’s dream resource. You could always count on them to help out no matter what the need. Homework completed, signed and returned the next morning? DONE. Halloween cupcakes made from scratch? DONE. Valentines for every classmate with their names on the envelopes? DONE. Costume for the PTA-sponsored Annual Program? Sewing machines began whirring weeks ahead of time. A fairy princess, Santa Claus, a reindeer with sparkly antlers, a flying elephant? Whatever. In time for the dress rehearsal? DONE.
These helpful mothers took to Show and Tell immediately and began scouring the house for treasures to send along with their child. But five days a week, 36 weeks a year, challenged even the most eager mom, so eventually the kids were on their own to choose what they would bring for Show and Tell the next day.
Episode 2
“Michael and the Magical Building Tubes”
One morning Michael showed up with a small brown paper bag, and a big smile that said, “I’ve got something special in this bag. ”In the prevailing orderly manner, I called on one row at a time. “Does anyone in Row I have something for Show and Tell today?” Three hands shot up. “You may come up to the front.”
By the time I got to Row 4 which was Michael’s row, he was ready to burst. He had to wait until Melanie showed her new pink anklets, and Rodney, who after shuffling his feet for a while, admitted he had forgotten what he was going to say.
At last! Michael opened the brown bag and pulled out some round white cardboard tubes.
“I can build stuff with these,” he announced and began fitting them together. When he needed more, he reached into the bag. He had to squeeze the end of the first tube to force it inside the other tube, and turning the shape a different direction was tricky, but the other first graders were spellbound. They wanted some. They wanted to build things, too.
Several hands were raised, all with the same question: “Michael, where did you get those?”
The magical source still amazed him, but he shared it with his classmates. “They were in my Mommy’s bathroom, in her wastebasket!” Twenty-nine little minds decided they would check out their Mommy’s wastebasket as soon as they got home.
Only one person in the room knew the original source of those tubes. That was me. If you are too young to know what they were, ask your Mom.
* * *
1969
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Helen Hunt Elementary School
The founder of Colorado Springs in 1871, former Civil War General William Palmer, stayed true to his Quaker principles and declared he would not allow schools in his city to separate students by race.
Black families, fleeing the danger and discrimination of the Jim Crow South, heard about this city with integrated schools, and saw it as an opportunity for their children. The first black citizens began moving to Colorado Springs in the 1870’s.They found out it was true that all of the public schools were integrated, BUT they could only buy homes in certain neighborhoods.
General Palmer could not control real estate, and except for the public schools, the city was segregated. One black neighborhood began at the edge of the city near a school that had been there since 1901. It was Helen Hunt Elementary, named for Helen Hunt Jackson, the writer and activist for Native American civil rights.
In 1969 when I accepted a third-grade teaching position, the school was no longer on the edge of town. Newcomers had to find homes to the east and the south as the city continued to grow and spread. Helen Hunt was now an inner-city school and its population was predominantly black with some Hispanic families. The neighborhood was community-centered with stores, churches and families who looked out for each other.
Nevertheless, the minority children were aware of racism. Their parents had been barred from public swimming pools. Their grandparents could not take their families out to eat in a downtown restaurant. The movie theaters had a segregated area for blacks. If they mistakenly sat in the white section, the usher would move them to the accepted area. My students did not experience these things in 1969, but the memories of them were fresh in the minds of their parents and older relatives and came up often in conversation. The Equal Housing Act had prompted some black families to move into white neighborhoods. But job opportunities were still limited for minorities and most families stayed in the area where they had grown up. The four black churches served as community centers, and the children were taught in Sunday School to love their neighbors. They usually did. They didn’t have any white neighbors.
Episode 3
“A Change of Heart”
Early one Monday morning, the principal came to my door with a new student. His name was Freddie. An under-sized boy with long straggly hair wearing jeans and a shirt that had seen better days, Freddie wore the usual “new-kid” look of shyness and apprehension. My 27 third-graders took no notice of that. What they noticed was he was White. I introduced him to the class and led him to his desk. He was greeted by unsmiling stares, which my smiling face and over-the-top cheeriness could not change.
Recess did not go well for Freddie. There may have been some verbal threats or challenges from my students, but they made sure no teacher ever heard them. Freddie found an out-of- the-way place to stand and watched the other kids. He did not get in the line to go down the slide or wrestle somebody to get the next turn at the swing. Sometimes he sat down and drew in the gravel with a stick. When the bell rang signaling the end of recess, the usual headlong race to be first in line took place and Freddie stood back and waited, knowing his place would be at the very end.
I started the school day with Show and Tell and we had the usual tales that Grandma came to visit, Dad bought a pizza for supper, admiration for a new football. I would occasionally make eye contact with Freddie to see if he had anything to show and tell. He would immediately look down at this desk.
This uneasiness of student relationships went on for two weeks. But on Monday of the third week as I said good bye to the children at the door, reminding them of their homework and that I would see them tomorrow, Freddie stopped and motioned for me to bend down. He whispered in my ear, “I’m going to bring something for Show and Tell tomorrow.” I gave him a smile but didn’t say anything, recognizing my need to keep a secret.
The next day, when his row was called, Freddie came up empty-handed. This caused a couple of the girls to roll their eyes, which said, “You’re supposed to bring something up there with you, Dummy.” But at the same time there was a slight tap at my closed door, and I saw a white lady looking through the small square window. It was Freddie’s mother. I went to the door and saw that she was carrying something with her. It was Freddie’s Show and Tell. The others sat down and everyone watched as Freddie’s mother fitted the object over his shoulders and stepped back.
It was an accordion! Mouths dropped open. I am quite sure some of my students had never seen a real accordion ever. Maybe not even on television unless someone had accidentally hit the channel with Lawrence Welk.
Freddie gave a half-smile—and launched into keyboard music. He played Happy Birthday. He played Three Blind Mice. He played some kind of polka that none of us had heard before unless maybe we had caught it on Lawrence Welk. His fingers danced along the keys. His skinny little arms made the folded sections go in and out. The music got loud. The music got soft.
Freddie regaled his audience with his entire current repertoire, heaved a big sigh at the close of the last tune, and nodded for his mom to come and get the instrument off him. Some of the students clapped. Some of them closed their mouths for the first time since he’d started. Freddie slid silently into his seat as his mother, accordion in hand, gave him a little wave and closed the door behind her.
There may have been bigger breakthroughs in history and race relations. The Civil War, the Civil Rights Act come to mind. But on our playground at Helen Hunt School we had our own breakthrough. At recess, following the morning’s Show and Tell, everybody wanted to be Freddie’s “New Best Friend.”
* * *
A final word for teachers, parents and their children: We WILL survive the COVID pandemic. It won’t be easy. Struggles, frustration and “do-overs” will abound. We will learn many things not in the curriculum. But we can help each other.
The mom who coped with an unexpected babysitter cancellation can TELL another mom what she did to handle the problem. When students are suddenly sent home for an indefinite time for on-screen learning, the technologically strong teacher can SHOW her less capable colleagues what to do. The students can practice what they learned since Kindergarten, when the teacher placed a big poster at the front of the room and kept it there all year. It only had two words but they all knew what the words meant. The poster said “Be Nice.”
We will see our way through this together, mask or no mask. Whose turn is it for Show and Tell? It’s ours.
***
Lucy Bell, former writing consultant and published author, is inspired by James Baldwin who said: One writes out of one thing only—one’s own experience. Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give. Lucy mines her own experiences with a preference for the humorous. She is currently working on a collection of essays titled “Most of It Was Fun.”
