Somewhere between today and March 1, I will have had add another year in age to my tally. My birthdays will have remained the same but the years get counted. Yes, I was born on Leap Year Day, and seeing that Leap Year only comes every four years that means the actual numbers of birthdays is greatly reduced than others my age. In fact in May both my boys will surpass me in birthdays as the youngest boy will be celebrating his sixteenth birthday.
Growing up and not having a birthday every year is a shock to a youngster; it didn’t mean a loss of birthday presents or even parties. The shock wasn’t even to me, but to my friends, they couldn’t understand how I would not have a birthday to celebrate each year. I still remember the time in third grade when the teacher was teaching us different words and the word this particular day was “annual”.
With the word, “annual”, the easiest defining of the term to third graders would be to explain in a way that would be easiest for them to grasp. “Okay class, an annual event is something that happens every year. Annual basically means each year, it may not be the exact day each year, but it does happen each year around or near the same time.” she said.
“Birthdays are an annual event, each of us has a birthday every year.”, she went on, at which time my hand went straight up. Before she would acknowledge my hand being raised she continued. “One year your birthday might be on a Tuesday and the following year it might be on a Monday or Wednesday but the date would be the same like August 8th for example is my birthday.”
Mrs. Beres, (pronounced “bare ass”) had her favorite students like most teachers do, I just happened to not be one of them, so my hand being up really didn’t mean much to her. I wasn’t giving up though; I was about to prove her explanation to be incorrect and so I kept my hand raised. I guess she thought in her mind that if she just continued on with her explanations I would give up and put my hand down. That wasn’t happening and reluctantly she acknowledged my hand, “Do you have a question Johnny?” she asked. “No, I don’t have a question mam, I just wanted to correct you on your mistake.”, I told her.
Back in those days teachers got really offended if you even suggested that they may have made an error. My answer to her question wasn’t a “suggestion”, I was flat calling her out on her mistake. She had this look she got when she was angry, it was unmistakable, and I think the steam coming from her ears was also a dead giveaway too. “I didn’t make any mistake Johnny, if you had been paying better attention maybe you would have understood what I was saying.” she told me. There were a few in the class started a little snickering, and those seated more to the front of the room turned their heads to look back towards me to see how I was going to respond.
“I was paying attention, that is why I know you made a mistake in your explanation.”, I responded. Rather than just asking me why I had made the determination in my mind that she was mistaken, she proceeded to give me a lecture on respecting my elders and about how rude I was being, causing a disruption. I thought I was being respectful; “mam” is a respectful term, just a shortened term for madam, so if that is rude I stand guilty as charged. If any disruption was being caused it was on her end for just not asking me the obvious, that being what I thought her mistake was.
She had some nerve of her own, accusing me of not paying attention, just because my eyes might not be focused to the front of the room watching her big ass walking back and forth as she is speaking doesn’t mean I am not listening. So now, she has me getting a little riled up, she makes the error and now she wants to blame me for what is taking place.
My mother had a favorite saying, and I had heard it often by this point in my life, it also seemed appropriate at the time, at least for this third grader. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.” was all it took for me to be headed to the principal’s office, and so with that reply I was off to the office. In my mind she was being rude to me, and I didn’t need a lecture about respecting elders, at least not ones who deserve respect. Respect is earned in my opinion, and that has always been my opinion, it is not gifted with age. I would give elders the benefit of the doubt in the beginning, but respect is a two way street, the traffic is coming and going, so show me a little respect as well and you will see it in return.
At the principal’s office she told the head lady that they needed to call my mother to come get me, she had determined that she was suspending me for the rest of the day. She retreated back to the class room and proceeded to write my parents a full page letter on just how bad I was, in all honesty it could have been more than one page, but since we only lived about six blocks from the school I think she wanted to be finished with it and have the letter in the office before my mother got to the school to pick me up.
Mother didn’t look happy when she got to the office, and the principal handed mom the envelope with the letter and told my mother I could return tomorrow to school. We were half way home by the time I got done telling her my side of the story, and as a typical parent of the sixties she believed she was getting the whole truth. When we got to the house, she opened letter and read it. She called the school and asked for the school to arrange a meeting after the school day ended. She wasn’t one who liked for things to drag out so it was best to get to the bottom of it right away.
So at three thirty that afternoon we were back at the school. The meeting in the principal’s office was held with Mrs. Beres, principle Kemp, mother and I. Mrs. Beres told her side of the story first and I just had to sit there and listen to just how bad I was, not getting a chance to reply to any of the accusations. “What do you have to say to this young man?” principle Kemp asked me.
“I was born on Leap Year day, so far in my life I have had two birthdays. Mrs. Beres told the class that we each get a birthday every year, and that is just I not correct. “ I said to her. The look on her face was priceless, the look on Mrs. Beres face was double priceless, she knew that she had screwed up. “So this is all over you trying to point out that Mrs Beres had made an incorrect statement and you were just trying to point that out?” she asked. “Yes, mam.” I said.
“Well how did the” pot calling the kettle black” seem to be an appropriate comment?” was the next question. I proceeded to give my explanation that it was rude of her to say I wasn’t paying attention, when I was, and that I was causing a disruption. She wasn’t willing to listen to a word I had to say. While, all she had to do was ask me to explain why I said she had made a mistake.
I was back in school the next day; Mrs. Beres was out “sick” the next two days, according to the substitute teacher we had for those days.
Needless to say I never had another problem when it came to being able to explain things in Mrs. Beres class after that little episode.
Until next time,
