TKAM Journal #1

"To Kill A Mockingbird"

Journal #1

Chapters 1 to 3

Perspective: Ms. Caroline

Dear Journal,

          One thing I learned in school today was that being a school teacher in a foreign environment is no easier than taming a class of jungle animals. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, worn out, and simply glad I had persevered the school day. A day I had planned so perfectly, so precisely had been shredded into a million chaotic pieces. I began standing at the black board in front of the room. I watched as children of all different shapes and sized came trooping into the room, some chattering excitedly to their fellow peers, other surveying the room with a nervous air. I smoothed my favorite dress; red and white striped for the first day of school and smiled at the class. When the class had begun, I gingerly picked up the chalk and printed, I am Miss Caroline Fisher. “This says, ‘I am Miss Caroline Fisher’. I am from North Alabama,” I added in explanation to why I was not indigenous to their home. Some of the students muttered timidly to each other and I wondered if there was something bad about North Alabama. I picked up one of my favorite books as a young girl. I began reading and was soon lost in the story of eccentric cats and kitchens, pictures forming in my mind out of mere words of a book.

          After that, I wrote the alphabet in capital letters below my name. “Does anybody know what these are?” I asked. I expected a few people to shyly raise their hands, however, to my surprise, every hand was hoisted into the air. I wondered how they all knew the alphabet (this year should be their first, even though quite a few of the students appeared older). I scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces, and my eyes fell upon little Jean Louise Finch, a girl whom my house mate, Maudie had introduced me to previously. “Yes, Jean Louise?” I said. She began reciting the alphabet. I waited for her to stumble or forget a letter, but she did not. I was worried. What if she and all the other children already new the alphabet and how to read? I wouldn’t be able to teach them anything about reading. I asked her to read a section of My First Reader. She did. I challenged her with quotations from the newspaper on my desk. She did. Jean Louise could read. I couldn’t be a good teacher if all the students already knew how to read. I bit my lip in frustration. Children should be taught by their teachers when they come to school; not before. “Jean Louise, tell your father to stop teaching you how to read,” I scolded. It came out harsher than I intended. She looked taken aback when she told me that her father had not taught her to read. “If he didn’t teach you, who did? Somebody did. You weren’t born reading The Mobile Register,” I asked with a more casual voice. She protested, but I thought it that this as getting silly; her pronouncements were not relevant, she must have been lying. “Your father does not know how to teach,” I said, firmly and told her she could sit down. Jean Louise seemed like a nice girl, but when I caught her composing a full letter, I lost my patience. It irked me that she had the nerve to write even after I told her off for reading.

          I had no more trouble until lunch. I asked all the children to raise their hands if they would be going home for lunch. That way, I could keep track of everyone that would be leaving. Several did. “Everyone who brings his lunch, put it on top of his desk,” I told the remainder of the class. Everyone did, except an older, quiet boy, who I noticed as I walked down the aisle of metal lunch pails. I asked him if he forgot his lunch. I had to inquire twice before he muttered that he had. That’s okay, I thought and produced a quarter from my purse. “Here’s a quarter. Go and eat downtown today. You can pay me back tomorrow.” He refused. In the process of encouraging him to take the quarter, I heard Jean Louise say, “Ms. Caroline, he’s a Cunningham.” A Cunningham? I had never heard of that. “What?” I asked. She told me that the Cunninghams were a family that never took what they couldn’t pay back. “You’re shamin’ him, Miss Caroline. Walter hasn’t got a quarter at home to bring you,” she said and something about stovewood. I figured she was being pretty rude; to the Cunningham child and myself. Did she have to make fun of him for having no money? It was okay with me if he kept the quarter. “Jean Louise, I’ve had enough of you this morning!” I said and told her to hold out her hand. I smacked it with a ruler a few, quick times. Then slumped in my seat the minute the class had filed out of the room. The day had started off bad; my head was spinning and my body was stressed.

          It seemed like no time at all until the class came into the room for the second time. I made an effort to familiarize myself with the class. There was Walter and Jean Louise, and a few other’s whose names I recognized. A small boy caught my attention. He was extremely dirty, almost to the point of disgust. Suddenly something moved in his hair. I gave an involuntary shriek as a small bug crawled out of his hair. I found his name to be Burris Ewell. I didn’t want the whole class to be infected with bugs (or cooties as I was told), so I looked up a cure and told the boy to wash his hair. I suppose the boy and I ended up in an argument. It seemed he didn’t want to come to school again for the rest of the year, and since he had no responsible parents, no one could reinforce him. I told him to leave, quite harshly. When out of the building, he yelled, screaming insults, and foul language, calling me a slut of a teacher. Eventually, the stress of the day fell on me, and I broke down crying. The rest of the day passed at a blur. I was so relieved when it was all over. I dread the next day.

Sincerely,

          Caroline Fisher