THE WICKED MS. JANSEN
Memories Of a Seven Year Old
Some life experiences are hard to forget, even though they happened early in life. I want to share one of those experiences. I grew up in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, where I attended elementary school during the tumultuous 1960s. In this school, first, second, and the same person, “Miss taught third grades. Jansen.” I suspect that Miss. Jansen might have taught children a little too long and forgotten about the art of proper pedagogy and decent human behavior to provide a good role model for young children. Indeed, I was terrified of her. Among her many dark deeds, the tall skinny large-nosed “old maid” teacher rode a giant old-fashioned bicycle to school, which reminded me, and still does, of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the East. She recklessly zigzagged throughout the playground forcing children to scramble for safety, burned milk on a hot plate stinking up the entire classroom, and pulled up her old-fashioned nylon stockings so high, showing her granny underwear visible. This deranged woman also forced her students to sit with both hands on their heads without moving for at least twenty minutes to punish her class after being forced to sit still for hours. At that time, I thought this must be what a prisoner of war camp like I had seen on T.V. the night before when the news broadcasted a clip of the Vietnam War.
I remember practicing writing in first grade under the guidance of Miss Jansen. Because I am left-handed, I smeared ink all over the paper and my hand. It was not my fault that the cheap pens issued by the school were leaking ink while writing. I still see my teacher’s disapproving gaze staring down at me from her large bony looming frame and thought I was surely doomed for the rest of the school year. I was, and still am, somewhat dyslectic, and I clearly remember when I learned how to write in first grade. I wrote from right to left in a mirror script. I did not realize that there was anything wrong with that until Miss. Jansen told me that I was making brainless mistakes and needed to pay more attention, or she would put me in the back of the class with all the other “dummies.” I also did not forget how Miss. Jansen forced me to drink warm milk. During that time, the Dutch government issued small glass bottles of milk to elementary school students. I was sharing her great love of warm milk, Miss. Jansen put the milk crate in front of the large black oil heater. After the milk became warm, she mandated that each child should drink a bottle. Initially, I quietly told the teacher I could not drink the milk, knowing that it would make me sick. My teacher replied to my timid request in her loud booming voice carrying across the classroom for everyone to hear that my refusal to drink milk was nonsense and that I would become stupid for the rest of my life if I did not drink the precious liquid. Of course, I did want to become silly for the rest of my life and be stuck with Miss. Jansen permanently, so I drank that nasty foaming warm milk gagging. I soon suffered from a severe case of diarrhea for the remainder of the day. Miss. Jansen considered my frequent trips to the bathroom as attention-seeking and shared her opinion with the entire class. Nothing like a bunch of classmates snickering each time you have to run out of class with severe belly cramps to make it on time to the bathroom and classmates squeezing their noses shut upon my return and silently slipping behind my desk.
In second grade, my fear of Miss. Jansen even intensified when something happened that even a seven-year-old would never forget. During the end of the second grade school year, one of the students in my class, “Augustina,” a girl of Indonesian descent with darker skin tone than the other children and beautiful long black hair, which she always let loose. Then it happened. I don’t know what set Miss. Jansen was off that day, but she had the worst mood I had witnessed. I don’t know whether the awful smell of burned milk threw her over the edge, her sagging stockings, or that she did not like brown-skinned students—still, Miss. Jansen rushed to Augustina’s desk, waved an accusing finger at the startled girl, and demanded to know why her hair was untied and why her parents refused to buy ribbons. To my absolute horror, she pointed at me, an introverted insecure girl with only a few friends, demanding Augustina wear her hair in a ponytail like me! I wished I had sunk into the floor at that moment and vanished from the face of the Earth. All the students were accusingly staring at me. Traitor!
The situation became more terrifying after Miss. Jansen produced giant black scissors from her large white purse. I wondered what other weapons this scary woman had in store for us. Students looked on in joint misery while a giant blue vein-ridden hand grabbed Augustina’s beautiful raven black hair and held it straight. In contrast, the other hand contained those extra sharp-looking scissors. The girl became rigid with fear, panic mode reflecting in her big brown eyes. A bunch of second graders looked on in horror as Miss. Jansen, wearing a smirk on her face and steel blue eyes fixed on her helpless target, pretended to cut off Augustina’s hair by making the scissor blades move with those long bony fingers. After some long minutes, the deranged-looking teacher let go of the girl’s hair, telling us that this was a lesson for every girl who did not come to class with their hair tied neatly in a ribbon. While Augustina scrambled back into her seat, I promised myself never to wear my hair loose as long as this crazy woman was my teacher, realizing third grade would be a long school year. The next day, to Miss. Jansen’s obvious great pleasure, Augustina came to school with her hair neatly in a ponytail sporting a large bright red ribbon. I think this was the first and last time I saw my teacher smile.
Thankfully, I made it to fourth grade leaving Miss. Jansen behind. My next teacher was young, modern, and friendly. No more the smell of burned milk, no more lead in my shoes going to school being yelled at, being called a dummy, no more prisoner camps, and most all, no more large sharp scissors! I started to enjoy going to class.
Memories Of a Seven Year Old
Some life experiences are hard to forget, even though they happened early in life. I want to share one of those experiences. I grew up in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, where I attended elementary school during the tumultuous 1960s. In this school, first, second, and the same person, “Miss taught third grades. Jansen.” I suspect that Miss. Jansen might have taught children a little too long and forgotten about the art of proper pedagogy and decent human behavior to provide a good role model for young children. Indeed, I was terrified of her. Among her many dark deeds, the tall skinny large-nosed “old maid” teacher rode a giant old-fashioned bicycle to school, which reminded me, and still does, of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the East. She recklessly zigzagged throughout the playground forcing children to scramble for safety, burned milk on a hot plate stinking up the entire classroom, and pulled up her old-fashioned nylon stockings so high, showing her granny underwear visible. This deranged woman also forced her students to sit with both hands on their heads without moving for at least twenty minutes to punish her class after being forced to sit still for hours. At that time, I thought this must be what a prisoner of war camp like I had seen on T.V. the night before when the news broadcasted a clip of the Vietnam War.
I remember practicing writing in first grade under the guidance of Miss Jansen. Because I am left-handed, I smeared ink all over the paper and my hand. It was not my fault that the cheap pens issued by the school were leaking ink while writing. I still see my teacher’s disapproving gaze staring down at me from her large bony looming frame and thought I was surely doomed for the rest of the school year. I was, and still am, somewhat dyslectic, and I clearly remember when I learned how to write in first grade. I wrote from right to left in a mirror script. I did not realize that there was anything wrong with that until Miss. Jansen told me that I was making brainless mistakes and needed to pay more attention, or she would put me in the back of the class with all the other “dummies.” I also did not forget how Miss. Jansen forced me to drink warm milk. During that time, the Dutch government issued small glass bottles of milk to elementary school students. I was sharing her great love of warm milk, Miss. Jansen put the milk crate in front of the large black oil heater. After the milk became warm, she mandated that each child should drink a bottle. Initially, I quietly told the teacher I could not drink the milk, knowing that it would make me sick. My teacher replied to my timid request in her loud booming voice carrying across the classroom for everyone to hear that my refusal to drink milk was nonsense and that I would become stupid for the rest of my life if I did not drink the precious liquid. Of course, I did want to become silly for the rest of my life and be stuck with Miss. Jansen permanently, so I drank that nasty foaming warm milk gagging. I soon suffered from a severe case of diarrhea for the remainder of the day. Miss. Jansen considered my frequent trips to the bathroom as attention-seeking and shared her opinion with the entire class. Nothing like a bunch of classmates snickering each time you have to run out of class with severe belly cramps to make it on time to the bathroom and classmates squeezing their noses shut upon my return and silently slipping behind my desk.
In second grade, my fear of Miss. Jansen even intensified when something happened that even a seven-year-old would never forget. During the end of the second grade school year, one of the students in my class, “Augustina,” a girl of Indonesian descent with darker skin tone than the other children and beautiful long black hair, which she always let loose. Then it happened. I don’t know what set Miss. Jansen was off that day, but she had the worst mood I had witnessed. I don’t know whether the awful smell of burned milk threw her over the edge, her sagging stockings, or that she did not like brown-skinned students—still, Miss. Jansen rushed to Augustina’s desk, waved an accusing finger at the startled girl, and demanded to know why her hair was untied and why her parents refused to buy ribbons. To my absolute horror, she pointed at me, an introverted insecure girl with only a few friends, demanding Augustina wear her hair in a ponytail like me! I wished I had sunk into the floor at that moment and vanished from the face of the Earth. All the students were accusingly staring at me. Traitor!
The situation became more terrifying after Miss. Jansen produced giant black scissors from her large white purse. I wondered what other weapons this scary woman had in store for us. Students looked on in joint misery while a giant blue vein-ridden hand grabbed Augustina’s beautiful raven black hair and held it straight. In contrast, the other hand contained those extra sharp-looking scissors. The girl became rigid with fear, panic mode reflecting in her big brown eyes. A bunch of second graders looked on in horror as Miss. Jansen, wearing a smirk on her face and steel blue eyes fixed on her helpless target, pretended to cut off Augustina’s hair by making the scissor blades move with those long bony fingers. After some long minutes, the deranged-looking teacher let go of the girl’s hair, telling us that this was a lesson for every girl who did not come to class with their hair tied neatly in a ribbon. While Augustina scrambled back into her seat, I promised myself never to wear my hair loose as long as this crazy woman was my teacher, realizing third grade would be a long school year. The next day, to Miss. Jansen’s obvious great pleasure, Augustina came to school with her hair neatly in a ponytail sporting a large bright red ribbon. I think this was the first and last time I saw my teacher smile.
Thankfully, I made it to fourth grade leaving Miss. Jansen behind. My next teacher was young, modern, and friendly. No more the smell of burned milk, no more lead in my shoes going to school being yelled at, being called a dummy, no more prisoner camps, and most all, no more large sharp scissors! I started to enjoy going to class.
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