My very first day of school was on my seventh birthday on September 5, 1989.
It was first grade at Annie Ellis Elementary School in Yazoo City. There was no kindergarten requirement in Mississippi, so I stayed at home as long as I possibly could. My parents and teachers would come to regret that decision during the first few weeks of school.
I hated it from the get-go. I mean, I really hated it.
I had known nothing but blissful life with my mom and dad for the first six years of my life, and I did not see any reason why that arrangement should have changed.
But here I was, thrust into this horrible concrete classroom with 25 other kids I didn’t know and a teacher I swore that I would never like.
The first day was all well and good, but I thought that by the afternoon, my mom would have felt the same way about me being away from home as I did.
Turns out I was wrong.
So, my story really picks up on the second day of school. That’s when it all got real, and I realized that they intended to keep me in that educational prison for 181 grueling days.
I started to jump up and down, scream, yell, cry, anything I could do to get the teachers and the principal to send me home packing.
I was determined to be as horrible as possible.
I was insufferable.
This went on for about two weeks. My teacher was no rookie, but I think that by the end of the second week of my tirades, she was at the end of her rope.
That is when the elder stateswoman principal walked in the door to hand my teacher some paperwork. She saw me screaming and kicking, and she asked, “Does he do this every day?”
“Every day,” my dear teacher lamented.
Later that day, the intercom came on, and the principal said, “Bryan Davis, come to the principal’s office.”
It turns out, she had called my mom and dad down for a parent-principal conference earlier that day.
My dad worked the graveyard shift at the time, and he was none too pleased about having to make the trip to the school rather than sleep.
The way it was told to me was that the principal laid out all of her grievances to my parents.
My dad looked at her, and he asked, “Do y’all still have paddles?”
The principal said, “Yes, we do.”
“Then use it,” my dad said, quickly ending the conference.
When I arrived at the principal’s office, she pulled out a gigantic piece of wood, which may have only looked so big because I was so young and had never seen a paddle like that before.
She told me that my dad had given her special permission to use the paddle when I misbehaved.
That really put the fear in me.
It was amazing how fast my demeanor changed at just the threat of a spanking.
I don’t recall ever having another fit after that.
I was not a model student, mind you, and I hated school until the day I left with my diploma in 2001.
My dislike for school never waned, even after went to college. There, it became a double-edged sword as my dislike turned into apathy, which meant that it took me even longer to exit the place that I hated the most.
Not to mention the fact that about 12 years ago, I went back and acquired my master’s degree in teaching and taught high school history for the worst 181 days of my life.
I’m not sure what I was trying to prove in undergraduate or graduate school, but I know that my days in the classroom are over.
There will never be another first day of school for me.
My kids seem to love it though, and I hope you enjoy our back-to-school photos on pages 12 and 13. We’ll try to run some more next week, space permitting.
