1972 has often popped into my head as a “go to” year. When Rich has complained of “not feeling 100%” I have responded that “I haven’t felt 100% since 1972.” It has been my pat response for as long as I can remember. I never put much (or any) thought to why I chose 1972. Until today.
I was having a discussion with a friend (okay, it was my therapist) about change. About how I find it a challenge (that’s the new word. The original word was “bad”) and she, being a therapist and all, asked what change I had endured that turned me against it forever. It was at that moment that I suddenly understood the relevance of 1972.
My second grade teacher hated me. She pulled my hair. She made my life miserable. She made my parents’ lives miserable. (Funny how that happens — it is true that a parent is only able to be as happy as their least happy child. Big time.) Her name was Estelle Cassidy. She was famous for her nastiness. Her disdain for me was, I now know, not personal. She didn’t like anyone. In hindsight that is great. At the time, however, it was awful.
When it became apparent that Miss (yes, Miss. Not Ms. and most certainly not Mrs.) Cass-assidy (and she was not so affectionately known) was not going to either change, be fired or even disciplined, my parents decided the best option was to pull me out of the school and send me to a nearby private school. Change. Challenge.
The following September, I started third grade at a lovely private school in a neighboring town. The administration building was a converted house painted in traditional New England colors -white with black shutters. It had an apple orchard abutting the field and smacked of the country life. Wow. Change. Challenge.
I went on to complete the remainder of my elementary schooling there. I was surrounded by Christines, Chrisotphers and Marys. I was the only person at the school (literally) who didn’t know the words (let alone the story) of the annual “Christmas Pageant”. Yes, Christmas. Not Holiday Pageant, not even Winter Pageant and certainly not Hannukah Pageant. Sure, I was no longer being abused by Miss Cass-assidy, but boy, was I a fish out of water. It was a change, but…well, it was then that my fear of change was not born, but certainly honed.
1972. The first big change (challenge) I can recall. It is sort of remarkable how I’ve made that association. Note to self: try to change that.
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p.s. Rich suggested I alter the ending of this piece. I thought about it, typed and deleted a few times, then announced, “I’m gonna leave it, I don’t like changing it too much” to which he responded, “yeah, no kidding!” ‘Nuf said.
