FATEFUL

In A Patchwork Memoir I wrote that “being in school, from adolescence on, was like doing hard time.” And it was. Because of my anxiety disorder, school was a prison to me. As I’ve said, I would hunker down at the back of my classrooms, in constant fear and dread of being called on—and humiliating myself by not knowing the answer. Written homework was a nightmare, too, because I worried so much about it being good enough that I didn’t know when to stop trying to make it better—and stayed up later and later at night. Eventually I developed the tactic of waiting till morning to finish my homework, so I would have an immanent deadline—the start of school.

I didn’t know at the time that there was an alternative to the classroom, and I’ve often wondered how different the outcome of my education might have been if I’d been tutored or home-schooled (though that would have required a different set of parents).

As it was, in my efforts “never to sink beneath my father’s contempt,” I abandoned myself—the things I loved to do—and focused virtually all my energies on achieving scholastically. It worked, up to a point. At Berkeley High I was the only girl chosen as a candidate for a college scholarship. But when I went before the little selection committee, I was too nervous to make a good impression. The boy who came after me told me he’d taken out pictures of his family to show them. He was the one who won the scholarship.

When I think back on those school years, only a few recollections stand out:

MRS. KEPNER

She taught English and was my favorite teacher in junior high—someone who, I felt, liked and respected me. On one occasion we all had to get up in front of the class and read a passage from Shakespeare. I no longer remember what I chose, but afterwards she suggested that I might want to consider acting as a profession. I also remember having to take a make-up test after being sick and completely blowing it. So when she told me later that she’d lost the test and it wouldn’t factor into my grade, I wondered if she’d purposely thrown it away.

MISS REPETTO

In junior high I studied French—and, as I’ve said, it took my teacher, elderly Miss Laurens, two years to realize that I was the best student in her class. In the weeks before I graduated, she would always call on me after another student came up with the wrong answer—because she knew I would get it right. This was the one course where I was confident enough in my mastery of the subject that I wasn’t afraid to be called on. 

My first year of high school, however, I got Miss Repetto for French. She was a petite brunette who, though no longer young, was attractive and stylish—with a coldness and brittleness that intimidated me so much I couldn’t learn from her. From the start she gave me the distinct impression that she didn’t much like kids and resented having to teach, considering it beneath her. In her class I was so anxious that I couldn’t retain anything she said or explained—and eventually my grasp of French slipped and my grades fell. (I remember passing by her classroom after school one day and hearing a girl crying inside.)

So I hoped, in my junior year, to have a different French teacher, but when I went over my course schedule with my counselor, there was no way it could be arranged. “Then switch me to Spanish,” I said—a decision, as it happened, that would change the entire course of my life.

In my senior year Spanish class, we had an old textbook with lively, funny stories at the end, which, on my own initiative, I practiced reading over and over again, pretending to be telling the stories to an audience. Gradually, there would be fewer and fewer times I needed to glance down at the book…and eventually I could close it and experience the words flowing out of my mouth as effortlessly as if I were a native speaker—which gave me a thrill.

MR. SAN MARTIN

My senior year of high school, I took advanced algebra from Mr. San Martin, a teacher who had the reputation of being one of the hardest in the school. For the first time in my life, I started getting Cs on homework and tests—and at least one D that I can remember. I was convinced that I couldn’t do higher math until one day Mr. San Martin read out loud the standing—in points—of everyone in the class. I was astounded to learn that I was still in the upper quarter of the class. Immediately my test scores rose to B plusses and A minuses—all because my estimation of my own ability changed, a lesson I’ve never forgotten.

MR. COSTARELLA

My senior year I also took a sculpture class from Mr. Costarella. Among other things, I made plasticine busts of two boys in my class (plasticine is an oily clay), and after gluing together four by fours, chiseled an abstract figure that was all planes out of wood. I remember Mr. Costarella telling me one day that I could earn my living doing busts if I was interested in pursuing it as a profession—a compliment I appreciated even though that wasn’t an ambition of mine. Later my busts would be on display in the foyer of the Berkeley Community Theater along with other student artwork. But when I took friends to see the exhibit, someone had mashed in the nose of one of my pieces. The morning of the awards ceremony that semester at Berkeley High, I had a dental appointment, after which I lingered in nearby Hinks Department Store so I wouldn’t have to walk across the stage to receive the best artist award. Again, I didn’t want to be the center of all eyes, even for a moment. And, too, I felt like an imposter—that I didn’t deserve the award because I didn’t know how to paint.