WAS I HISTORY’S FIRST BART SIMPSON?

Children Should be Rewarded Through Writing Assignments, Not Punished by Them

Thanking My Second-Grade Teacher (For the Wrong Reason)

Dear Miss R,

You may have joined that big classroom in the sky by now. However, I’m going to pretend that you’re still here.

(After all, writers are good at pretending.)

None of us knew that it would be decades before anyone understood that I had ADHD and autism.

All you thought back then is that I was a hard-to-control mystery.

I didn’t start classroom riots or brawls. In fact, I was a peaceful child.

I sat by the window of our second-floor classroom.

How I loved looking out that window!

My Classroom View of the World

This scenic view allowed me to see past the city limits. I had a view of farm fields rolling past city limits, stretching past the state highway that sidestepped our town.

“Tommy, would you like to tell us what’s out the window that’s so interesting?”

Girls giggled, because they recognized our teacher’s “you’re in trouble now!” voice.

But me? I had no clue.

The girls laughed louder when I answered, “Sure. I see lots of things. What would you like to know?”

Teacher, you thought I was challenging you.

How sad.

“Well,” you said. “Let’s have you stay in for recess and you can write about all of these things you see.

“Your theme should start, ‘When I look out the window, I see…’ and then you can write about all the things you’ve been doing besides paying attention to your teacher.”

Soon, the class poured outside as the bell rang. Recess for all but one.

But I wasn’t mad. I felt special.

You brought me lined paper. I had a pencil ready.

“I want more than one sentence,” you warned. “And don’t get up until you’re done.”

I don’t have my original story. (You impounded it!)

But I think I can remember most of the theme.

My Recess Deadline Assignment

“When I look out the window, I see lots of houses. The far away ones look smaller.

I saw ‘Mary Poppins.’ Everyone danced on the roofs. Men with brooms danced.

“I see the big factry where my dad works.”

(At my age, I hoped that I could sound out spelling words. You did convince me that an O belonged there, no matter how my parents made the word sound.)

“I know the door where my Dad goes in. He works there.

“I think about him when I see his door.

“Can he see my school?

“Does he think of me?

“I hope so.”

The bell rang. The kids slow-motion walked back to their desks.

You marched to my desk.

“Let me see what you have so far, Tommy.”

My classmates whispered loudly. They were ready for you to scream. Or me to cry. Or both!

But your loud reading voice got softer near the end of my story.

Your red pen added an “o” for “factory.”

You stood looking down at me.

“Do you want me to write more?” I asked.

You flashed a tiny smile. “This is enough. Just try not to look out the window all the time, please?”

I wasn’t going to tell you back then, in case I was in more trouble than I imagined.

But YOU failed, not me.

I was having fun. I liked writing.

This was supposed to be my punishment?

How many kids grew up hating writing, all because teachers made it into an embarrassing shame-fest of a chore?

The plot of higher education was to turn writing into extra work, to scare children into obeying teachers more?

I can’t be mad (or give you the dreaded F) because I’m sure teacher’s college instructed all of you future instructors what to do. You were taught that the threat of extra writing would squeeze subservience out of any student.

I grew up to work for newspapers and magazines. And I wrote more than 50 books for children.

I never met anyone who tried to punish me with writing after second grade.

Instead, the world paid me to write.

Writing never stopped being fun.

When I’d see the opening TV credits of The Simpsons, I always thought of you.

Bart’s teacher is trying to punish him by writing the same sentence, over and over, on a blackboard.

Like you, his teacher (Mrs. Crabapple) started his sentence, like you started mine. Of course, Bart’s beginning was “I will not…”

By the way, I have looked out windows every day of my life, not just in your second-grade classroom.

The view is one of my greatest joys.

There wasn’t any real secret to my success. My strategy would work for any second-grader today.

1. Look.

2. Imagine.

3. WRITE.

Class dismissed.

You may go out for recess with your students now.

As for me? No, thanks. I’m staying in.

I have more stories I want to write.

Tom Owens is a daily occurrence on Twitter at @domorebemoreNOW, where he rails against soul-sucking jobs. To help support his snarky sense of humor, consider subscribing to Medium via https://medium.com/@domorebemoreNOW/membership.