What happens in the school yard....stays in the school yard!

"Learn your ABC's!" "Learn how to read and write!" "Learn how to spell!" 'Learn your
"multiples!"' "Learn respect and discipline!"
At times it felt like when I went to school I got pointless knowledge forced down my
throat. Of course in retrospect, said knowledge was essential, but in that moment I would have
much rather been watching Pikachu shoot a thunder bolt.
It all started way back in 1998 on my first day of kindergarten in this new and strange
land known as Central Islip, NY. There wasn't a cloud in the sky; bright reds, yellows, oranges,
and greens danced across my eyes. The air was crisp, and the breeze was full of life. With my
Pokemon themed book-bag in hand, a lunch box filled with a delectable turkey and cheese
sandwich and a Ssips brand iced tea, I was ready to tackle the day. I had one of the nicest
teachers in the world! Although, I remember always wondering why her stomach was so large,
but the rest of her body was so small. I later found out that she had had 5 children in 4 years; she
was busy! She would always have a motto, "Be kind to your neighbor so they have a reason to be
kind to you."
Another teacher of mine had a type of "motto" as well, but her's was slightly jaded.
"Don't ask me questions you Son-of-a-Gun!" When she wasn't shouting at our class for not
understanding what she had taught, she spent her time crashing her yard stick against the cold
lifeless blackboard. I remember wondering, "She's probably so angry because her make-up can't
cover the over sized mole under her lip." I rarely remember seeing her smile; She probably had
no time to because she yelled so often, sort of like a crazy Italian man.
Speaking of crazy Italians, my third grade teacher Mr. Mazza was a lot to take in. He
worked endlessly to make sure we were prepared for the future. Tall in stature and plump in size,
he stood over us all like the Eiffel Tower. At times the winds blew fiercely and he would sway
all the way down into our faces, yelling and sometimes showering us with thunder storms of
saliva. "I used to wonder if that was the way Italian men expressed themselves; a lot of sporadic
hand movements and saliva?" Even with his bellowing voices and monstrous build, he was soft
at heart and cared for us all, deeply wanting us to have the finer things in life. It seemed as
though he enjoyed the finer things in life as well. His choice of a finer thing was my fourth grade
teacher, whose name won't be mentioned for safety purposes.
Aside from being a young, beautiful and carefree English teacher she was driven to
succeed. Each day seemed to be filled with assignments that stimulated my mind and my
newfound artistic side. Her classroom with splashed with every color of the rainbow, decorated
with everything from a simple music note to crazy flower assortments. I remember being so
amazed at how closely her classroom appearance was parallel to her own. With her outgoing
personality and flare, she was the one thing that sparked my interest in art and music.
This interest continued to grow and grow, and soon I found myself involved in the fifth
grade concert band where I met this very old and very large woman, Mrs. Starks. Who would've
thought that one woman could instill so much fear and knowledge all at once. I remember that
she was very mean and always walked with a cane. But I also remember that the majority of us
were fearful of doing something wrong in her presence; no one dared to challenge her. This
woman had the face of an ogre, the grace of three-legged elephant, but, the heart of an angel. The
way she whipped us all into shape with her tough love was remarkable. Often times if someone
were to "goof off" in rehearsal, or talk to their neighbor when she was giving instructions, she
would hurl a large sponge that was painted to look like SpongeBob Square Pants, right at their
head. I surely got my fair share of spongy attacks.
Spongy is definitely the word that describes my 7th grade technology teacher Mrs. Reed.
She was soft to the touch, easily squeezed dry, and often walked over. Although she was very
sweet and caring, she was the epitome of the term "welcome mat." She was to boldness as
chopsticks are to soup. Although her significance in my life was very small, she taught me an
invaluable lesson without even trying to do so. She taught me how to be relentless with my
positive attitude. She taught me that no matter what people say or do negatively toward me, I
should remain steadfast in staying happy and positive. I remember when she was tortured by the
rude kids in my class pelting her with nasty words, evil slurs, and an occasional wood slab from
a project we were working on. I remember that on one Halloween, the majority of my class
covered her car with eggs and old ketchup, how she came in the next day like nothing had
happened was beyond me. I remember wondering if she would go home and cry all night.
Speaking of tears, my High School choir director Mr. Anthony was a very emotional and
passionate man. Without a shadow of a doubt he educated me more than a lot of my prior
teachers combined. Most teachers in the public school system stand by a plea to never get close
to their students, and forget getting to know them on a personal level. Thankfully I was blessed
to have had him in my life. Gliding underneath his wing, I learned how to tackle the world with
the fire of a warrior and stealth of a lion. With the sensitivity of a lily, and the mouth of a sailor
he provided me with endless laughs and wisdom. In my time with this choir I experienced
something that I will never have again, a family outside of my own; in which I can express a vast
array of emotions through song. I remember singing in the White House. It felt as though all the
ten plus Christmas trees on the first level of the Obama residence were taller than my apartment
building. The guards, with their guns in hand, cocked and ready to shoot, unnerved me just a bit
but the thought of standing where the President once stood far outweighed my nerves. I
remember singing a Negro spiritual hand and hand with my choir mates in a circle around the
Martin Luther King Memorial in Washington D.C with tears rolling down my faces. I've never
seen a sky bluer than it was that day, the grass was greener than the slime on Nickelodeon, and
King's statue stood higher and prouder than the very guards who protected the President. That
was a beautiful time in my life. I remember that my director would always tell us, "Even if you
don't remember every detail exactly as it was, you will never forget what you felt." He couldn't
have been any more correct.
Being correct was something that my high school Librarian Mrs. Mitchell stood by
faithfully. From her short and puffy afro, to her purple shoes that matched her purple head band,
standing at a respectable 5'3" she had the personality of a 7" tall basket ball player. She was the
perfect blend of sass, attitude, and truth. There were many people that hated her with a fire hotter
than the molten lava of the volcanoes of Hawaii, but I loved her dearly. On a regular basis I
would find myself being scolded by her, "Getcha life!" Man, she really molded me, and sculpted
me beautifully to withstand the harsher side of life. She never hesitated to remind me that the
world wasn't always going to be nice to me. Her voice still rings in my ear like the siren atop a
fire truck, "If you won't do it for yourself, no one else will! Getcha life and stop being a slacker!"
Man I miss her.
"Learn your ABC's!" "Learn how to read and write!" "Learn how to spell!" 'Learn your
"multiples!"' "Learn respect and discipline!" Who would've thought you could learn so much in a
so called "under-privileged" district. I gained the knowledge of a thousand men, from the least
expected individuals, making me into who it am today. I remember my friend told me something
after breaking some equipment in gym class, "What happens in the school yard stays in the
school yard!"