Sunday, February 19, 2017

Why I'm Grateful to Mrs. Olson

Someone posted a picture on Facebook the other day that made a memory erupt from the past.



It was my sixth-grade teacher and her husband.  Mr. and Mrs. Olson.  I'm sure they have first names, but you know how it is with teachers--they're always and forever Mr. or Miss or Mrs. 

I am forever grateful to Mrs. Olson.

At that stage of my life there were many things that were wrong.  In my little world, I had no clue how to define a problem and find a solution.  And making a fuss was absolutely not ok.

I was a little Beachy-Amish girl in Minnesota at Grove City School, on the top floor of the old elementary school with its brick walls and high ceilings.  I wore a large white cap and simple dresses among dozens of Lutherans in jeans. [We were known in the community as Mennonites, for some reason, but in truth were much closer to Amish.]

 I was also an avid reader, plowing through shelves of books in the classroom library, from Freddie the Pig to Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Most of the time, I got along fine with everyone, and they were kind.  But I always felt Different.

We would file down the long flights of stairs to the cafeteria for lunch, at which time Mrs. Larson and Mrs Knutson [most Minnesota names end in -son] would take over, watching over the lunchroom and the play time afterwards.  Usually we walked a block or two to the playground, but in really terrible weather by Minnesota standards we played in the "small gym." Usually several games were going at once, circle games or shooting baskets or jumping rope.

One day one of the girls in my grade decided to tease me by grabbing the hem of my dress and yanking it up.  It took me by surprise.  She laughed and laughed.

The other girls started doing the same thing.  There I'd be, waiting on my turn to shoot, and suddenly, WHOOSH, and the more they saw the more they laughed.

Day after day.

Why was it that I didn't have the skills to make them stop, to tell Mrs. Larson, to stand up to them?  Why did I feel like somehow I deserved this treatment just because I existed and was Different? Or that I would ruin any chance of acceptance and friendship if I made a fuss?

I would giggle nervously and try to tuck my skirt between my knees.  I'd go sit on the bleachers between turns, embarrassed and confused.  If I tried to hold my skirt down at the sides, they jerked it up at the back or front.

Nothing worked very well or very long. Yank, laughter, boys turning and looking.

It was awful.

Maybe I could get out of the noon play time somehow.  One day I offered to come back to the classroom after lunch and clean the chalkboard erasers.  Mrs. Olson said yes.  Wonderful.

The next day I came up with another excuse.  I think it was something like coming back to work on my math.

Ummm, ok.

It was about the third time I stayed in the classroom that Mrs. Olson said, just straight out, "Why don't you want to go play over lunch?"

"Uh, well, I don't know..."

She was not ok with that.  What a beautiful thing it was to have someone in my life recognize a problem and ask me about it in straight-out concise words and to insist on an honest answer.

So I told her about the girls pulling up my dress, feeling relieved but also terrible for tattling.

She said, "Who did this?"

I didn't want to tell her.

She got out a pen and paper.  "Tell me the names of everyone who did this to you."

She meant it.

I started listing.  She wrote down name after name.

"Anyone else? Did Vickie?"

"Well, only once I think."

She wrote "Vickie" in a determined hand.

She didn't say much more, but I could tell she was a woman on a mission.

Pretty soon everyone came back up the stairs, grabbed a quick drink at the fountain, and came back in the classroom laughing and wiping their mouths.

I sat waiting, knowing that the earth was about to shift on its axis, or at least that something in my strange little world was changing in ways I had never experienced before. 

Mrs. Olson stood at the front of the classroom.  She held up the paper and said, "Debbie, Vickie, Deanna,. . ." She read off the entire list.  "All of you go to the principal's office.  I want to talk to you."

They got up and left.  Dear God, what had I done?

They came back a few minutes later, grinning a bit sheepishly.

I thought, "I am going to Get It."

None of them looked at me.  Nor did they glance at each other and Look at me.

The next day we went to play in the gym and no one pulled up my dress. No one ever did that again. And no one ever said a word to me about what had happened. 

I still felt different, but mostly people were kind.

At the end of the year, we voted on all kinds of categories, and then Mrs. Olson gave us awards.  I got the Smartest Girl award.  And then to my utter astonishment, Mrs. Olson said I had tied with Tammy Ellingson for "Prettiest Clothes" but she gave Tammy the award since I already had an award and she didn't.

My awful little Amish dresses had tied for Prettiest Clothes!

So that was a nice ending to sixth grade.  But the best thing about sixth grade was the new and glorious experience of having someone notice that I had a problem, insist that I speak it out loud, and advocate for me when I needed it most.

I will always be grateful to Mrs. Olson.

25 comments:

  1. Tim Bergstrom2/20/2017 8:21 AM

    Dorcas - I have my own "Mrs. Olson" story - someone who completely changed my life for the better! And I thought of you and other members of your faith in the highest regard - and will always cherish my best childhood friend - Glen!

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    1. Thank you, Tim. I'd love to hear your story sometime.

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  2. My mom could have written this. It makes me want to go back in time and deck anyone who hurt either of you.

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    1. Thanks, Crystal. You know, kids just do dumb things, so I am more angry at whoever it was that taught me that silent acceptance was the only option. Was it parents, church, the Amish culture, my big brothers, or just a complicated soup of all the above? Still figuring that out. And hugs to your mom.

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    2. Maybe it was nobody. Maybe it was just your nature not to raise a fuss. You would have had to be taught to do otherwise. Nobody taught me to silently accept that kind of tormenting, yet that is what I did all through high school. And, I snickered myself when it was other kids getting the brunt of it. If I could go back and change anything, it is the latter I would change. I would far rather I had stood up for the other kids.

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    3. Actually, Lucy, my nature was very much to say things out loud, and I was taught not to. But, like you, I wasn't always kind to others, which I regret.

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  3. This made me cry for sixth grade Dorcas. God bless all the mrs. Olsons in our lives.

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  4. When I was 18 a neighbor and friend of my father's tried to get "friendly" with me. I got him out of the house and a few days later told my friends down the street. They were a married couple around 30 years old. There was no point in telling my father, he would have been furious with ME. The husband from down the street went to the bad guys house and threatened the heck out of him and let him think he was going to tell everyone else on the block. The bad man was terrified and never came near me again. It is now 50 years later and I still think of that situation and how grateful I was. In a really bad childhood no one had ever stood up for me before that.

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    1. Thank you for sharing this story, and God bless the guy down the street for standing up for you!

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  5. I went through a similar experience except that the principal gave them his blessing for their behavior (and it was a Mennonite school !)! Took me years to heal from it.After years of analyzing and study I came to two conclusions - that people confuse Pa. Dutch with being Mennonite( Swiss Germans put much emphasis on being "quiet" and "blending in ") and the willingness to use children to keep families who "don't conform" to "straighten up ". we are NOT talking about actual Biblical sins here. If a family isn't "in line" then their children are ostracized to send a message " you are treading on thin ice -shape up". In the meantime THOSE children grow up with the mixed message that "nonresistance is only for not going to war OR with outsiders - it doesnt count for that family in church that "doesnt act right".

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    1. Shirley, that is horrible and I'm so sorry you had to endure such treatment and the twisted messages that came with it.

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  6. For some reason this story made me burst into tears. A child meeting an Advocate, and finding the courage to Tell.

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  7. I didn't go to Grove City elementary but I went to Atwater but I didn't fit in either because I am Catholic and German and not Lutheran and Scandinavian. I was different too even though I looked the same as my classmates.

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    1. That is so interesting. There were two Catholic kids in our grade...I wonder if they felt like you.

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  8. I had Mrs. Olson too. But a different year. She was not nice to me. She ridiculed me in front of others. She made fun of my work. When i stayed up late to try to make it perfect and hoped she'd notice she brushed it off. I too was picked on relentlessly. Im glad she helped you though...and I guess we are all human and capable of good and bad. Just a different perspective.

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    1. I'm sorry you didn't have a good year with Mrs. Olson.

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  9. Dorcas, I love your story about Mrs. Olson. You have an amazing way with words and thank you for sharing your stories. Mrs. Olson was my sixth grade teacher too. She truly was a great teacher in many ways. I was very blessed to have many talented teachers that cared about their students in Grove City. I graduated in 1977 and my maiden name was Johnson. I believe your brother John was in my grade. Thank you again for writing your story. I hope to read more of your stories. Take care Dorcas!

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    1. Thanks, Pamela. I'm trying to figure out if you are Pam Johnson that lived on our road and rode our bus for years...
      Just fyi, John was also a Yoder but not my brother. :-)

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    2. I was Pam Johnson. There was another Pam Johnson that was my second cousin. She was two years younger than me. I believe that you are correct that we rode the same school bus. What year did you graduate? I know that you are younger than me.

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  10. Mrs. Olson was my sixth grade teacher as well and a grade school teacher hero. Your thoughts triggered a flood of memories . . .
    Nathan Yoder

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    1. It would be interesting to compare stories.

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  11. A beautiful story. Learning to speak up and speak out takes real courage for some of us. And as we learn our power, grace to do it with kindness.

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    1. Yes. I've learned a lot but still have much to learn.

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