GRADE 7: IT WAS NOT HEAVEN CALLING

continued from - IT’S HOW THEY ANSWERED THE CALLING

Excitedly Nervous
As a reference point, I concluded my last post with the words déjà vu, as to here I go again. I was about to relive entering Grade 2 again, not by academic year, but starting all over in a new school, new neighborhood and eventually new friends. Shortly just before Grade 6 ended, my parents dropped the news, once again, we will be moving, this time to Miami, Florida. My parents finally were ready to leave the bitter, brutal freezing winters of Wayne, Michigan and Toronto, Ontario and move to a warmer year round climate. They decided to live where the winters are as beautiful as the summers we enjoyed at our summer cottage in Muskoka, Ontario.

Whether you call it junior high or middle school, for many of us these were the years of a myriad of changes we faced as we transitioned from children to teenagers to adulthood. Which I think many of us would much sooner forget. It's a good thing many of us don’t recall much of these years, they were both physically and socially awkward as we progressed through the various stages of puberty. For me, with hormones raging into my bloodstream and transitioning into a new school, new teachers, new friends to be made and finding out who I was becoming was both frightening and exciting at the very same time. I unintentionally suppressed much of these years as they were probably the years I felt as the odd one that didn’t fit in and it was not just because I was the new kid on the block twice; once for Grade 7 and again for Grade 8.

My last weeks of Grade 6 was uneventful yet bittersweet. With the last progress reports given, the lines were drawn which Grade 6 students will go to which junior high school or for some it was repeating Grade 6. The three junior high schools were Adams, Stevenson and Franklin. Most of my friends and the majority of my fellow classmates were going to go to Adams. Life-long friendships were forged as they would continue on together and more than likely attend the same high school together. I wasn’t sure about who would attend Stevenson or Franklin, nor did it matter. Teachers wrapped up any lessons and stopped teaching new ones, final year end field trips, the last award assemblies and the eventual farewell.

Our good-byes were no longer, it seemed like the forever good-bye, it was not like year’s past.

“See you in the next school year in grade (whatever grade maybe).”

It was more like an extended good-bye, knowing some of us would not cross paths again unless miraculously something brought us together once again.

“It was good being friends with you – good luck in junior high.”

For me, I knew my good-bye was to my everything, everything I gotten used to being part of my life as I knew it. It was tearful good-byes to my school, teachers and staff and most importantly the only friends I really ever knew.

This was the first summer Mom and I didn’t spend the entire summer at the cottage, rather it was an abbreviated summer. There was plenty to prepare for our move, get organized and finally decide when we will leave and then pack and cram into the little 1981 Plymouth Horizon. School in Miami started in the middle of August and not after Labor Day as I was familiar with. While Mom and I were going to get settled in our new home, Dad would join us later once he finished packing up his work tools, closed up the cottage for the season and coordinated the move of our furniture and remaining items and took care of any loose ends. The day finally arrived, Dad did one last check of the car’s fluids and in typical Hungarian custom (or any other European family) we said our forever good-byes before finally getting in the car and departed. With Mom’s saying a quick Hungarian prayer, as we began or journey and headed south to Miami,

“Isten segitsen minket” or translated “God help us.”

Dad expressed to me I was Mom’s co-pilot and we had to look out for each other. I took my job seriously, with maps in hand and within arm’s reach snacks, drinks and the ability to find a good radio station took priority when we travelled through the different cities along our trip. As Mom drove away, tears flooded my eyes, realizing all too well this was really happening. Each time I looked back, I saw Dad’s silhouette getting smaller and smaller until he vanished from sight. Retrospectively, I look back and see how my brave Mom was to drive alone from outside of Detroit to Miami.

With an occasional reminder for Mom to take a break from diving, I looked for the next nearest rest area to stop for a brief cat nap and a much needed restroom run. The little Plymouth Horizon was one of the first fuel efficient cars for its time. It’s excellent mileage per gallon stretched out the occasional stop to refuel and possibly enjoy a cold refreshing beverage. Mom recalled with me how nervous she was but felt comforted by following a woman driving an 18-wheeler for a considerable length of our journey. Mom reminisced fondly of this driver and how she slowed down enough for us to catch up with her when we stopped to refuel and continued to lead the way south. She signaled with her flashers when to slow down and gave us an extended honk of her loud horn when it was her time to exit the interstate and leave us on our own for the remainder of our journey. Finally, we crossed the Florida state line, where we stopped and had our obligatory fresh squeezed orange juice at the Florida Welcome Center and taken another much-needed restroom break. I picked up the last state map of our journey and added it to my collection. Once we got back into the car after our quick stop, we very quickly learned our first lesson of owning a car with a black vinyl interior with metal seatbelt buckles - it can and it will burn you. Florida welcomed us with insanely stifling heat combined with suffocating humidity. I would also learn this is typical weather from May through October.

The last leg of the trip from the Florida Welcome Center to Miami never seemed to come to an end. The drive was monotonous on the Florida’s Turnpike, with the desolate flat lands on both sides of the highway and nothing notable to see between Orlando and Miami. The day grew hotter the further we moved south and as the time moved from morning to evening, making it feel like we will never make it to Miami. The only difference was at night was the sun finally took a break from beaming its bright light. We arrived at our new home without incident, an apartment which was part of the Hungarian Kossuth Club. I don’t remember how we received the keys to our apartment or how or where we slept the first night. I do remember within the first day of arriving, I became reacquainted with my Mom’s stepfather and half-brother for the first time. I met them both several years earlier when we came down to south Florida during one of my winter or spring break holidays.

Hello, Grade 7, ready or not, here I come!

Miami Aerospace Academy

Shortly after arriving, my Mom and I registered for my new school. Unbeknownst to me, my parents and my Mom’s half-brother decided on enrolling me into military school. They concurred it would help me overcome my shyness and teach me structure and discipline. I supposed these were tools necessary to become a man or perhaps to help me overcome being a child of two helicopter parents. As an only child, I was my parents everything. Many of my parents’ friends felt I was not only spoiled but overprotected and shielded from anything and everything that could harm me.

I digress, as we entered the campus of the Miami Aerospace Academy, it looked like a dilapidated juvenile delinquency center. I peered over the cinderblock wall and saw students in pseudo military uniforms performing their morning military exercises, I immediately didn’t have a good feeling of going to this school. After we finished registering, we were escorted by an administrator, or in this case a high ranking officer for a tour of the campus. Upon the completion of the tour, we picked up my uniforms, books and school supplies. I was felt from the very first day this was not going to be the right fit for me and it will open up more questions than answers into my life thus far. My intuition never lied to me and now more than ever, I hoped it wouldn’t let me down.

On my first day of school, I was escorted to the outdoor courtyard. This is where we checked in and listened to morning announcements and the national anthem. Both played on an a scratchy worn-out record player, amplified by a megaphone. I didn’t understand much of what was being said in the announcements. I did my best and followed along with what seemed to be the right thing to do. Once we finished, everyone got in lines for morning uniform inspection and then proceeded to do military exercises (just like the ones I saw the day before – except I was the one inside the fence) for the remainder of the morning. The South Florida heat and humidity was suffocating and within moments I was soaked in sweat. Upon completion of the military exercises, we were given an opportunity to shower. Like much of my peers in the middle grades of Grades 7 through Grade 9, we never showered as it was too awkward for all of us going through puberty at different stages. I am certain I reeked something awful and cannot imagine how bad a couple dozen or more adolescent boys who didn’t shower must have stunk up the lunchroom let alone our classroom. I just changed into a clean uniform and be ready for another uniform inspection just before lunch.

After inspection we went downstairs for lunch. I was exposed to my first Hispanic lunch. I remember coming home from school telling my Mom what they served us. I described it as yellow-colored rice, little black balls in some kind of sauce and bananas fried with sugar and ground meat with olives and raisins. Eventually I was told what they served for lunch that day was picadillo with yellow rice, plantains and black beans. Throughout my brief time at Miami Aerospace Academy I was introduced to arroz con pollo, ropa vieja and lechon asado – this was my only good take away was being introduced to what was Cuban food. The cafeteria food was actually better than a home packed sandwich and a piece of fruit.

While I can still see faint faces of the teachers, I can’t put a name to any of their faces. The only names I recall were the officers, Colonel Marina and Major Mesa respectively which was similar to the school principal and assistant principal. I am more certain than not, I believe one of them lead our escorted tour the first day. Both these two administrators were feared by students for various reasons unknown to me. My opinion compromised of not being able to understand their loud conversations and their reputation in carrying out punishments, I knew I didn’t want to piss either of them off. Despite, not really knowing what punishment consisted of, the rumors and the fear of the unknown was enough to keep me on their good side. There were plenty of other experiences I could write about in my not even full semester at Miami Aerospace Academy however; this post is not about the dark sides of this school.

I came home from school every day to only tell my Mom how much I hated school and complained about the day’s transpiring events. The rigors of military school and the escalated issues grew worse than the day prior and my hatred for everything about the school grew exponentially. At first, I am certain everyone thought I was fabricating a tale to get out of going to military school. It was only when my Mom heard the final complaint coupled with not having made any friends and no one spoke English to me, she then decided it was time to take action. It was already a challenge in making friends being the shy and the new student in the school. It seemed those around me where speaking various dialects of Spanish. It became more complicated when I was unable to make any friends since I didn’t share their language or had any common ground to initiate conversation. My Mom along with my Mom’s half-brother’s ex-wife came to the school to withdraw me and enroll me into the local public school for the remainder of Grade 7.

Although my experiences became an unforgivable loss of time which will never be returned to me, I managed to move onward and regain my footing both academically and socially. The impact Miami Aerospace Academy left me to distrust almost all my teachers until almost high school. On my final day at Miami Aerospace Academy, I couldn’t escape the confined walls of fast enough, the only thing faster was when I finally arrived home the very first thing I did was change from military uniform into street clothes which every typical Grade 7 teenager should be wearing, a pair of shorts and an Ocean Pacific t-shirt.

Citrus Grove Junior High School

Miami Mulligan
After given a couple of days to decompress, Mom and I drove up to Citrus Grove Junior High School to register for school. From the outside, the school was large two story beige building, or as my Mom corrects me and calls is it taupe in color building. With what appears to have no windows and a one point entry (this was before school mass shootings even made the scene). I quickly learned the school was built this way to serve as a hurricane evacuation center. It was a short drive from the previous school, or as I refer to it as the juvenile delinquency center. Despite the exterior looks, it was still just slightly more welcoming.

Mom and I walked around for what seemed like a really long time until we finally found the school’s entrance, it was by the administrative offices. In tow, my Mom was armed with a folder which proved my vaccinations, my school records from when we moved from Michigan and other some loose useless information the school didn’t need to get me registered and enrolled. After registration, I was given a schedule of classes in different rooms. At Miami Aerospace Academy the teachers were the ones who rotated the classroom not the students. The whole concept of the entire student body shuffling swiftly through the halls to their next class in five minutes was foreign to me. Even more so, when I was told I would have to try to squeeze in a quick restroom break within that time, had me wondering how I’d make it to my classes on time. The restrooms were always on the opposite sides of the floor where my class I was heading to.

If I started school in the beginning of the year, I would have been allowed to choose two elective subjects but I was placed in classes which were not already at capacity. As a result some of the classes I was placed in where below grade level and my electives were not by my choosing them.

Although the student body was majority Hispanic or Latino, like my previous school, most of them were bilingual. All the teachers spoke English and some were bilingual and spoke English and Spanish seamlessly interchangeably, which called Spanglish.

First Period
Coincidentally, my period 1 class was Physical Education (or as we called it in elementary school, gym class) was with Mr. Bass. When Mr. Bass blended in with the class in the locker room as he was rather short in stature. His thick, but well-maintained moustache which encompassed most of his upper and lower lip and deep baritone voice commanded respect separated him from the students. I didn’t grow up participating in sports programs, nor was I introduced to American sports by my father who was born in Hungary. Contributing to my lack of athletic ability, I was always the fat kid on the playground and now going through puberty faster than my peers, I really didn’t like daily physical education class. I was often called various nicknames; Sasquatch, Bigfoot or Monkey Boy and not Robert because my arms and legs were hairier than the majority of the boys in class. I always tried my best and managed to do well in class and learned the basics of team sports of baseball, basketball, football and a few team games despite my lack of balance and coordination. I give accolades to Mr. Bass for his patience to teaching students individually and explaining rules not one or two times, but often a half dozen times. There were just as many other awkward students in our class who were much like myself. Many were also born in foreign lands and were not exposed to many of the activities he taught. Just like the military exercises at the military school, most of us dodged the showers but no one forced a shower, Most of took a spray of deodorant under our underarms and went on our way to our next class and left a trail of our body odor where ever we went.

Second Period
For a short period of a few weeks, I was in Mr. Butalla’s period 2 Civics class before being transferred into Mr. Rodriguez’s class. Mr. Rodriguez was the epitome of the science teacher played by Ben Stein in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” His monotone voice, lost the majority of the class, either distracted in other sidebar conversations or the remainder fell asleep. If you paid attention, his lectures demonstrated a man with a wealth of knowledge and passion in this area. My attention was laser focused whenever we studied anything to do with American history, civics, government and constitution but my grades did not always prove it. Perhaps being a first generation American, I felt a connection to these areas and always enjoyed studying about anything to do with what we used to call social studies. He was the first teacher I had who was able to simultaneously keep my attention on a topic I enjoyed and get me to participate in class discussions albeit in his relatable presentation despite it presented in the most possible boring way.

Third Period
My first time walking into period 3, Mrs. Williams’s, Language Arts class for the first time, I entered after tardy the bell rang. I couldn’t find my way to her classroom from the restroom and ended up in the wrong hallway. Her immediate look of disapproval was one my own mother wouldn’t even give me when I did something wrong. It was sharp enough to cut through my soul and realize I would not let this happen again. Let’s say this was an awkward way of being introduced as her new student. It forever defined the relationship we maintained for the rest of my year, distant and cold as ambiance of the classroom. The classroom was dark and cold, the walls were dark and bare and one of the fluorescent lights were out and a couple flickered as if they were ready to burn out any moment. With the exception of the day’s date and homework assignment, the chalkboard was bare as were the two bulletin boards in the classroom. I quickly became aware this was a class being taught below grade level. The thought of being placed in a below grade level class in my favorite subject area was made worse when I heard Dade County Public Schools were ranked one of the lowest in the entire state. I personally think they were the very bottom compared to the entire nation as I compared it what I left behind at the Wayne-Westland School District. I momentarily flashed back in time to Mrs. Bowling’s class in Grade 3, where we did parts of speech, sentence trees, weekly spelling words with spelling tests and began reading Judy Blume chapter books. Mrs. Williams lessons were definitely taught as if we were still in elementary school as to my dismay the class was reading the very same Judy Blume books I read back in Grade 3, as part of assigned class time chapter book readings. I dreaded coming to this class as I was always bored and felt I was far too advanced for her lessons and again, my grades reflected it. I made it a point to prove to Mrs. Williams how much I disliked her and her class that I stopped doing my homework or participating in class.

Lunch Break
Lunch was somewhere period 3 - Language Arts and period 4 – Life Science. I am being generous in time, when I say we were given 25 minutes to literally inhale our lunches and make a quick trip to the restroom. I never understood how students who had to buy lunch, had enough time to stand in line to get lunch then find a seat and enjoy their meal. Junior high school lunch break was the opposite of my elementary school. I thought lunch break was time to fuel your body and socialize with our friends. Although there were no assigned tables, you would meet your friends outside the doors and enter together. Once you had all your friends together, you entered as a group and scanned the entire cafeteria looking for enough empty seats for you and your friends since saving seats was not allowed. The cafeteria monitors turned down the lights as a sign for our voices need to be silenced for the brief lunch period. Maybe this was the only way everyone was able to eat their lunch and go on to their next class. By chance if you finished your lunch before everyone else at the table, you remained in your seat until everyone was finished. Once everyone was finished, a cafeteria monitor would come over and volunteer a student to wipe down the entire table and then inspect the surrounding area and then tell you to go line up by your grade level. I often finished the last of my lunch, usually an apple or some other easy to eat fruit, on the way period 4. Sadly, this left me (and I am sure others too) with horrible eating habits for the rest of their lives by being conditioned to devour our meals quickly. Lunch break became simply an inconvenience to get nutrition in our growing bodies.

Fourth Period
As we were dismissed to period 4, I meandered to my Life Science class where Miss Gonzalez stood by the door welcoming everyone into class by name. I believe this was the first class in Grade 7, I felt a teacher’s genuine warmth. There was hope to believe that some junior high school teachers were answering their calling to be teachers. Miss Gonzalez was relatively young teacher, perhaps fresh out of college and taught her lessons with enthusiasm and my grades seemed to be a roller coaster based on whether I enjoyed what we were learning. As we wrapped up each day and before the bell rang, Miss Gonzalez would leave us with a positive affirmation. One of the most memorable ones for me was, her reminding us with a smile, we all are capable of excellence and to always go make it a great day.

Fifth Period
Remember when I said, due to my late start I didn’t get to pick my electives? I was basically scheduled for what was available? My period 5 class what the school labeled an introduction to vocational-technical careers. The classes changed by quarter grading period and I was exposed to auto mechanics, home economics and graphic arts.

Mr. Aleman, an older gentleman who taught auto mechanics, who if he wasn’t my teacher, I could see my father and him having a beer together while they shared their love of cars and their liking to tinker with engines. Most boys my age loved this class as it was dealing with engines, albeit lawn mower engines, they got to tinker with them in school. I remained indifferent to it. My father was an auto mechanic and was often reminded to study hard so I can go to college and get a job which I didn’t have to work as hard as he did. The last thing my Dad wanted me to be was just become another grease monkey making the dealership owner rich.

The next quarter I was placed in home economics with Ms. Kelly, as auto mechanics made almost every boy drool, this class made every girl’s dream of playing house reality and get graded for it in school. We learned basics of how to keep house not just play house. This would have been an excellent class in high school with a change to the name to something like, “bootcamp – surviving on your own.” The curriculum could cover job searching and interview skills, managing personal finances (both income and expenses), how to build credit and understand basic insurance policy than and real world keeping house tasks, especially cooking simple nutritious meals to avoid eating out every meal.

The final quarter was Mrs. Miner was graphic arts and microcomputers. Since leaving elementary school, this was the first class and teacher I looked forward to every day but had a difficult time earning my dismal grades. Mrs. Miner was the teacher every Grade 7 student needed; tough love to hold you responsible for your assignments and demanded attendance with active class participation. My attendance class participation was not my issue nor was it my assignments. My problem was my continued my personal struggle for perfection. This alone prevented me from turning in assignments both timely and complete. Ultimately, this resulted my grades reflecting just mediocre performance on my report card. In Graphic Arts we learned the foundations of typesetting for press printing, understanding layout and importance of white space while creating eye-catching designs with vibrant colors.

The largest impact from this class was I was exposed to my first microcomputer, the Apple II and my love for computers was launched. We learned about the hardware as well as the foundations of programming in Apple LOGO and AppleSoft BASIC. I still get just as excited at the sound of an Apple II disk driving whirling and a dot matrix printer printing out on pin-feed paper. The anticipation of what we will learn and do in class next was always something new, fresh and exciting and was most certain to create exciting conversation amongst our class. Mrs. Miner provided opportunities for small group activities. Our classroom was not filled with microcomputers nor enough graphic arts stations for everyone to participate in the same lessons so were broken into grou ps. On Mondays, Mrs. Miner lectured and provided the lessons for the week. For the remainder of the week we were in our small groups and was provided small group instruction and activities Fridays were to wrap-up our lessons with classroom discussions or on occasion a written test.

Sixth Period
My final period, period 6 was mathematics. Although, my basic math skills was never strong to begin with, I managed to be functioning at the lower end of grade level mathematics when we left Michigan. My Grade 7 class was just being introduced to learn decimals, percentages and fractions. I remember this being taught in elementary school but because of my weakness in this area, this provided a much needed refresher and opportunity to practice my skills. I often ponder if I was placed in this remedial math class because of my abilities based on standardized test scores or there was no room in a general math class. Despite being placed this math class, it helped me gain much needed confidence and improve my skills before moving on to Grade 8. Mr. Biddy and Miss Brooks team taught lessons and provided one-on-one assistance as needed. Both were approachable and well liked, their patience to explain and re-explain math skills to me at least one thousand times. Each time explaining it in a new way, hoping that one of them would eventually turn the proverbial light bulb on even if it was a just a dull glow that remained on for the remainder of the lesson. Both Mr. Biddy with his corny jokes and laugh and Miss Brooks with her beautiful encouraging voice earned not only my respect but admiration of what it took to be not just a teacher, but one who stood tall amongst the crowd of those who came up short in Grade 7. By the end of the school year, my math skills were brought to grade level and my confidence in math skills vastly improved.

Forgiven Faux Pas
I bet you noticed throughout Grade 7 there were no quotations from teachers. Report cards didn’t have subjective comments. Teachers just bubbled in a grade, just as I did on the many scan-tron score sheets for the tests those same teachers periodically gave. I missed the handwritten ones with the personal individual touch of an elementary school’s teacher’s note recognizing your accomplishments or areas to improve upon.

My parents decided once the school year was over, we will move to Hollywood. We spent countless weekends looking for places to live and we finally found a house, not an apartment in a nice neighborhood. We became familiar with the area by visiting friends living there, spent time at their less crowded beaches and even shopped at several specialty markets in the area. Until now, I have always lived in an apartment, the anticipation of living in an actual house was exciting. Sometime in the distant past, while riding in the passenger seat, somewhere in south Florida, , in the passenger seat, there was a bumper sticker I read, “Will the last American leaving Miami, remember to take the American flag.” This bumper sticker was appropriate to seeing how Broward County was immensely different than Dade County. I could write a post just on these differences alone. The house was located in a neighborhood more familiar to me, it was more suburban and had more similar people to us. I was going to be able to enjoy spending time outdoors riding bikes, hangout with friends at the house after-school or get into things teenage boys do.

My Grade 7 year ended without any fanfare or pomp and circumstance. With the help of my Mom’s half brother, we managed to pack up both of our vehicles and may have rented a small truck from a local moving company and moved ourselves to our new home. Other than the few friends I made in the apartment complex where we lived, my departure from Grade 7 was overlooked with everyone celebrating the last day of school. Then again, it bears repeating, it’s a good thing many of us would much sooner forget the middle years of school. For me, the not so pleasant experiences considerably outnumbered the memorable moments and just proved to me many of these teachers shouldn’t have answered the calling.

 

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