I was 8-years-old and in the second grade in 1976, the Bicentennial Year for the United States. The small town I lived in had an essay contest with the subject “What America Means to Me.”

My fiercely jingoistic writing¹ won second place, which was a silver dollar, and I got to read my essay in front of the town council. My mom saved it and gave it to me a few years ago.

Here’s that essay:

America is a loving union on earth and beautiful. Im glad christopher columbus found it. With people helping each other and sharing... More

There’s teachers you remember, and teachers you remember. And I remember my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. VeVea.

Basically it’s because I disliked her intently. Dreaded going to school disliked. Was terrified of her disliked. Hated is probably a more accurate term.

She was a strict disciplinarian, a thin-lipped disapproving woman with the demeanor of a drill sergeant and the same tragic Brillo Pad hairstyle as TV painter Bob Ross.

Her favored punishment was to make students “write words” ¹ a la Bart in The Simpsons opening credits. She would start students off with five sentences and escalate with each... More