One of my fondest memories of school days is from a visit to a school that I wasn’t actually attending at the time. And fond is not really the word… terrifyingest is. True, there was only a brief moment of terror, and terrifyingest may not be a word, but it did turn into a fond memory. I swear.
As a young teenager in the mid-90s, my family visited my grandmother’s hometown in the Czech Republic, Rychnov nad Kneznou. For reasons I don’t quite remember, the whole family ended up on a tour of the local elementary and middle school, which was to culminate with lunch at the school cafeteria.
You can bet I was excited about that last bit. I was limiting my diet on this trip to schnitzel and potatoes, with the occasional pizza thrown in for good measure. And pizza was way more adventurous at the time than it sounds now. Czech pizza was routinely topped with canned corn and other surprising hey-don’t-put-that-on-there-oh-God-no foodstuffs, depending on where you went in those days. Whoever said that there was no such thing as bad pizza had clearly never been east of the Rhine.
Before we could partake in that thrilling meal, we toured the grounds of the school with the principal. Ever the lazy teenager, I lagged at the back of our little group, listening to my Dad translate about the fascinating pedagogical techniques employed in this little corner of Bohemia. I couldn’t believe I was missing school so that I could learn about school. At that moment, that very thought, a hand on my collar unceremoniously yanked me backwards.
One of the teachers grabbed me and was berating me in Czech. I didn’t speak it but it didn’t take a translator to tell he was not pleased. As my parents receded into the distance, a vision of my new life flashed before me. I would live in the utilities closet at the school and mop the floors to earn my keep. I would grow thin with rage and malnourishment from the cafeteria food and socks with sandals would seem like a reasonable sartorial choice to me. I could do it!
Whatever my transgression, the teacher released me, and I hurried to catch up with my parents. I wouldn’t have to start over in a foreign country after all. Phew.
I later realized that in my haste to stick with the group, I failed to allow two young Czech girls go through the door before I did, leading the teacher to give me a brief, loud lesson in proper manners via the scruff of my neck. I learned about teaching techniques in Czech Republic whether I wanted to or not that day.
Even now, I still let everyone pass through the door before me. You never know when you might feel a hand on your collar.
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