I didn’t know I had attended “poor” schools until I was a senior in college and took a totally useless class called “History of Public Education in America.” When I was getting my teaching credentials, I was never offered a class on classroom management, making lesson plans, or keeping records, but I was taught about “The Phlosophy of Education.” Anyway, in the history class text, were charts listing stats for public schools in the various states. There I read that Oklahoma, where I attended public school through ninth grade, had the second poorest schools in the country. “Poorest” on this chart meant the least amount of money spent per student and the lowest teachers’ salaries.
I am happy to report, that I did not receive a poor education. Mostly, with a few unfortunate exceptions, I had exceptionally fine teachers. They were the primary resources in their sparsely equipped classrooms. And we certainly did not know that our classrooms’ furnishings were sparse. We each had a desk of our own. The rooms were warm and clean. We had blackboards and textbooks. We bought our own supplies — paper, pencils, crayons, paste, workbooks. We didn’t waste anything. Sometimes there were children who could not afford supplies but there always seemed to be a drawer in the teacher’s desk where “extras” could be “borrowed.”
God only knows how we survived the scarce playground equipment during the long, largely unsupervised recesses.
Mostly, we were just free to play with no regimentation, usually with a ball or jacks or marbles or a jumprope we had brought from home.
I remember being taught basic things that still serve me well today. I can read and I can write manuscript and cursive legibly. I think the reason I can still write legibly today is because I was drilled on the correct way to hold a pencil. I was taught arithmetic long before I was expected to grasp Mr. Puckett’s algebra concepts in ninth grade, so I don’t need a calculator to figure out an adequate tip. I was taught the shape of every country in the world and every state in the Union. (Of course, I have had to re-learn Africa several times since then.) Mrs. Henson read us poetry and we were expected to recite at least ten lines by memory every Friday. I know not to say “had ran” or “She was ran over on the runway at SFO.” I know that the pH of my garden soil needs to be amended with a little lime if I want my beets to be tasty.
And there was music. In the little grade school I attended, there was only one old upright piano and it was in the auditorium. Every day, each grade went separately to sit in the front row of the auditorium for a while where Mrs. Collins played and we sang. At first we just sang simple nursery songs. Of course, Mother had already taught them all to me, but for some of my classmates, this was the first time they had ever had a chance to sing outside of church. Later, in junior high glee club, I remember being taught simple intervals so we could harmonize. To this day, I sing in a choir.
What I remembered mostly this past week as I celebrated the Fourth of July with some friends in my age-group, was that I had been taught all the patriotic songs. At that gathering, all of us knew them, and sang them heartily while watching the big fireworks across the valley and lighting our own little sparklers. God bless America. Land that I love. Stand beside her and guide her, through the night with the light from above. I can recite the Preamble to the Constitution. I know how many Supreme Court Justices there are. I know that Oklahoma is south of Kansas and north of Texas. I know, in the second poorest state in the Union, I had some fine teachers and got a good education. I know the definition of rich.
