K - 8k
by Daniel Moreno
The year of circle time and learning how to say “moon” in Chinese. Jefferson Elementary had a bilingual program. That is to say they hired lots of nice Asian ladies to teach Mandarin to obnoxious little Berkeley kids. The lovely and kind Mrs. Wong was my teacher. Even though I couldn’t have been more than three feet tall I could tell this lady was tiny. Her glasses looked thick enough to make her petite little body tip right over. She never yelled and always had a serene smile on her face.
Mrs. Tong The Evil. If there was one Asian you didn’t want to cross it was Mrs. Tong. Her hair was short, choppy, and black… just like her soul. She had the same thick two-ton glasses like Mrs. Wong, but instead of covering up a warm and friendly grin, they only acted to magnify her piercing eyes and thin wispy brows. One day, for Show and Tell, a little blonde boy brought a toy spaceship to present. When it came time for him to Show and Tell us, the ship was nowhere to be found. Turned out that another small boy had taken it and sat on it... Immediately after the thief pulled the broken ship out from under his butt, Mrs. Tong fiercely ordered the entire class to scream at him… scream. at. him. The very next day during free time, I managed to knock not one, but two miniature snow globes off of the display shelf. Time seemed to slow as a mixture of glass, water, and snowman exploded on the floor before me. Why couldn’t that have been me?
This was the year that my class was mixed with a third grade class. The sweet and always calm Mrs. Fong was given the duty to teach us how to write in cursive. Us second graders were given the option to write in italics. You know, because 7 year olds can’t quite grasp just how to connect two letters together while it’s just another walk in the park for those 8 year olds. One day, after tirelessly rewriting a capital cursive G, I decided to be a good Berkeleyite throw away some garbage. Worst decision of my life. I was only a foot away from the trashcan when I slipped and fell face forward. I didn’t fall into it so much as my face collided with the rim successively lacerating my lip as I fell onto it. After an hour of gushing blood and going through about thirty band-aids, my grandpa came to take me to the emergency room. My mom was away on business so I was pretty much in panic mode. I have a boo-boo, I’m going to the doctor, I fell on a trashcan, and mommy’s. not. here. All I remember is being strapped down to an operating table while screaming my brains out. I left the hospital with five stitches and an obsessive fear of garbage.
Third Grade
The last Asian lady I would ever have: Mrs. Ying. How about a little review. Mrs. Wong, Mrs. Tong, Mrs. Fong, and Mrs. Ying. Wong Tong Fong Ying. That is quite possibly the most intense lineup of stony-faced Asians since the Great Wall of China. Mrs. Ying was strict like Mrs. Tong, only in a very different way. Mrs. Tong would terrify us by ripping out our 6-year-old hearts and making us swallow them whole. Mrs. Ying took a more Jewish approach. She would simply guilt trip us into feeling lucky for having all four limbs still attached. When someone would complain or misbehave she would go off on a tangent about how, back in Hong Kong, her dance teacher would walk around the room and push everyone’s legs into seemingly impossible contortions. She ended her story by adding that both of her legs had been broken in this process, and that her teacher had screamed at her for crying. That shut us up good.
Forth Grade
My teacher was in a wheelchair… let’s not go there.
Fifth Grade
My final year at Jefferson. I think being at the top of the elementary food chain went to my head a little bit. I could never say that I was quiet as a child. Before fifth grade I would talk in class, be told to stop, and actually do so. But all of the sudden I was spitting out phrases like, “You think I was the only one talking?” or “Why are you singling me out?” God, I was obnoxious. And not only had my pubescent attitude kicked in about three years early, but I also started turning into a politically correct, know-it-all member of the Berkeley population.
“Why are we called Jefferson?”
“Because, Daniel.”
“But why? Did you know Jefferson owned slaves? Do you really think it’s okay that our school is named after a slave owner?”
“Daniel, be quiet.”
“Why are you singling me out?”
Sixth Grade
King Middle School = Hell on Earth. Sixth grade was probably one of my more embarrassing years. I spent most of my lunches working in the library with two other losers, who shall remain nameless. The three of us would take twisted pleasure in filing index cards or running errands for the crusty old lesbrarians. Sixth grade was also the first year that I had more than one teacher. It was a completely new experience that made me feel mature and independent. I just loved organizing multiple binders with a mix of folders, dividers, and colored tabs. It made me feel so… in control. It also marked the beginning of my neuroses.
Seventh Grade
My perpendicular phase. Whenever I was sitting at a desk I had to insist that every item before had to perpendicular or parallel to every other item, and that everything together had to be perpendicular or parallel to the edges of the desk. You can only imagine my dismay when I realized that the Berkeley Middle Schools are littered with defunct desks. Warped wood, cracked edges, and entire chunks broken off were only a few of the horrible scenarios I encountered. I would sit hunched over pulling my hair out by its roots, wondering how on earth I would be able to properly align my binder, pencil, and miniature stapler with a hideously deformed desktop. This was also the very first year I got the privilege of taking foreign language elective through the Berkeley Public School system. Mr. Geiken was his name, and he was gross. Really gross. He was very tall, from my point of view as I was still under five feet, and very thin. His face was always clean-shaven, yet it looked waxy, like he was about to melt. He was the whitest man to ever walk the face of the Earth, yet he wanted so desperately to be Hispanic. He had a tendency to throw a delicate Spanish pronunciation into a completely English sentence.
“Last summer on my way back from Cooba I stumbled across a policeman who was muy Meh-Hee-CAH-no. I said to myself SAHN-tah Mah-REE-ah…”
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he also coached the cross-country team. Everyday after school he would march out of his classroom wearing a loose mesh tank top and a pair of horrifyingly short shorts. Skinny + Waxy + Short Shorts = … you figure it out.
Eighth Grade
I’m incredibly modest when it comes to showing skin. I think people should be able to keep themselves fully clothed at all times unless they’re completely comfortable to do otherwise. That said, I hated P.E. Expecting me to disrobe in front of a gaggle of prepubescent boys was, in my mind, absolutely ludicrous. Thus, I was extremely relieved when I man shot himself in our pool. All of the students were informed that an unidentified man had hopped the fence into the King pool, stood at the edge of the water, and shot himself once in the head. To this day I’m unclear if he actually fell in the pool, or if he collapsed at the edge. One way or another, his blood got into the water. Just when I thought I would never have to go near that pool again, the administration made another announcement. To my horror, they told us that the chlorine in the pool would kill any harmful bacteria and that it should be considered completely safe for swimming. It was my worst nightmare. Swimming, while half naked, in a vat of dead people germs. Luckily some meddling parents, my mother included, insisted that the pool be completely drained and refilled. I never saw that swimming pool again.