Rocky Road Is More Than a Candy Bar (Excerpt 1 from an autobiography)

Chapter 3 opens: A new teacher’s first day

[Editor’s Note: Jim Rix has introduced us to the 4th volume of Shirley Skufca Hickman’s autobiography in his own autobiographical column, “My Life,” and William Silveira reviewed the book on March 18. So, today, we present an excerpt from the book, the opening of Chapter 3, in which the author describes the first day of her first week as a new high school teacher. The rest of the chapter will appear on Wednesday. And remember, if you know how to access Amazon.com, you can “look inside” the book there.]

The night before my first day of class, I had difficulty falling asleep, afraid I wouldn’t hear the alarm, and I’d be late. When it rang, I jumped out of bed and took a quick bath. Searching my closet for something to wear, I considered the clothes I’d made: a brown conservative dress, a purple sheath with the ruffle, trimmed in lace, on the bottom, and a short-sleeved red dress with a full skirt that hugged my waist. I decided on the red dress and three-inch heels to match. I studied my face in the bathroom mirror and practiced looking confident, even if I wasn’t.
    I had a simple breakfast of tea and toast.
    Leaving my apartment, I walked down the lovely tree-lined street, enjoying the sun warming my face. If I were still living in Colorado, the morning dew already would have dampened the ground, and soon the snow would blanket our town for months.
    I was happy my dream to escape the cold and move to sunny California had come true. Now, I had to be a successful teacher so I could stay there.
    I walked past an elementary school, the stadium where the Olympic champions had trained, the tennis courts, and finally arrived at Tulare Union High School.
    The halls overflowed with teenagers smelling of Old Spice, Evening in Paris, and other perfumes I didn’t recognize. As they talked and laughed jostling one another, I wondered which students were mine.
    The building had three stories, two main ones, and a third for the superintendent’s office, a small kitchen, and my classroom. I climbed the narrow stairs and entered the room where I would teach.
    Too nervous to sit, I glanced out the windows lining one wall and watched cars and people moving down the tree-lined street below.
    As I inspected the small stage at the back of the room, I noticed there was only one overhead light and no footlights. I could direct early rehearsals there, and later we’d have to move to the larger stage in the auditorium.
    A bell rang and students filed in for my speech class. I took a breath, smiled, and introduced myself. I wrote my name on the board and explained that Skufca was pronounced scuff-ca. I assigned seats alphabetically and explained their first assignment, an introductory speech.
    “Students, I know you’re nervous about giving speeches. Everyone is, but with practice, you’ll feel more comfortable and probably enjoy the process.”
    Some students groaned. Others appeared eager.
    I felt like a hypocrite telling them not to be nervous when I was shaking inside, but I hoped they couldn’t tell.
    After the students left and a new group entered for my drama class, I repeated the same introductory information and answered students’ questions.
    “No, you don’t have to be in a play to pass the class.”
    “Yes. Anyone in the school can try out, not just the students taking drama.”
    After I dismissed the class, I noticed that despite wearing deodorant and dress shields, a small trickle of sweat ran down my arm. I quickly wiped it away with a tissue and tried to calm down.
    My next class was remedial English. I’d been told I shouldn’t expect too much from these students, but I always bridled when I heard such remarks. My students would be above average. I’d see to it.
    However, when Roland asked, “What do I have to do to get a D-?” I quickly responded, “Not much.” I immediately realized I should have given him a wise comment about the value of education, but I was so surprised, I didn’t think fast enough to respond with an intelligent remark.
    A brown-haired, brown-eyed, average-looking boy, appearing to be fifteen-going-on-twenty named Bill, approached me.
    He grinned. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Do you like it?” His eyes roamed over my body, making me very uncomfortable.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you married?”
    “No.”
    “Do you have a boyfriend?”
    Afraid what the next question might be, I said, “Please sit down so I can take roll.”
    “Sure, Teach.” With his right hand, he combed back his thick, brown hair, sauntered to a desk, and slid into it.
    I was horrified he might be flirting with me.
    I gave the usual introductory remarks.
    The bell rang.
    The morning ended.
    I’d survived.
    Eager to leave my classroom, I hurried to the school cafeteria, where I loaded my tray with spaghetti, salad, and chocolate fudge cake. I paid thirty-five cents and sat at a table with Norma, Carol, and Lil.
    “How did your morning go?” Lil asked.
    I didn’t want her to know how scared I was. “Fine.”
    Norma twirled her spaghetti on her fork. “I don’t know what your students are like, but I have one class of squirrels I’m going to have to tame.”
    Carol gestured with a piece of bread. “My first three classes are great, but fourth period is noisy, unruly, and too big. How are your classes, Shirley?”
    I didn’t want to complain. “Fine.”

After lunch, I entered the high school auditorium through the back door and surveyed the stage where my classes would meet.
    I found a small dressing room and changed from my red dress and heels into a long-sleeved black leotard, tights, and a blue skirt, which buttoned down the front. I glanced in the mirror. I was tall and had a nice figure, but I was too skinny, especially my arms.
    I studied the roll sheet:
    Sheron Cartwright, the superintendent’s daughter
    Kay Waite, the principal’s daughter
    Karen Lowe, the band director’s daughter
    Carole Longenecker, the Principal of Adult Education’s daughter
    Ruth Kent, a counselor’s daughter
    As I read each name, my fear of failure multiplied. If I made a mistake, the administrators would hear about it from their daughters. Not only would I have to teach these girls, but twenty-five more.
    Chatting and laughing, the girls arrived wearing colorful spring dresses, bobby socks with saddle shoes or flats.
    “Good afternoon, ladies, my name is Miss Skufca. I’m your new dance teacher.”
    That was obvious. They wouldn’t be there if they hadn’t signed up for the class.
    I smiled to hide my nervousness. “We’ll continue to meet in the auditorium, but you’ll change and take showers in the gym. Everyone is required to wear a leotard and tights.” I explained the rules about attendance, showering, and clean clothes on Monday.
    “Since this is our first day, I’d like each of you to tell me about your previous dance experience.”
    I scanned the room. The only girl I’d met previously was the superintendent’s daughter. “Sheron, would you please begin?”
    She smiled, showing her pretty dimples. “I’ve taken ballet for five years and jazz for two.”
    I returned her smile, but inside I quaked.
    Good God. I had only two units of modern dance. She’d had years of training. How could I teach her anything? I hoped she was an exception, but as I called on each girl, and she listed her experience in ballet, jazz, and modern dance, my stomach tightened.
    After everyone spoke, I confessed. “This should be an interesting year. All of you know more than I do.”
    When they laughed, I realized they didn’t believe me.
    Did they think I was making a joke? I was deadly serious.
    Much to my relief, the bell rang.
    A break between fifth and sixth periods was designed so students could attend one of the twenty-two clubs. Every student was expected to participate in one or more.
    The auditorium was chilly, so I stood in the doorway at the back of the stage in the sun to watch students going to and from their activities.
    A young boy in a white T-shirt and Levi’s approached me and smiled. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. I am.”
    He edged closer and smiled again. “Do you like it?”
    “Very much.”
    Suddenly, I heard one of his friends yell, “Hey, stupid. She’s a teacher.”
    “Oh, God, no.” The boy blushed with embarrassment.
    He ran away, followed by his laughing friend.
    I didn’t know whether to be flattered or worried. He’d thought I was a student, but I vowed never to stand in the doorway again.
    The bell rang, and my next group of students arrived. I introduced myself, explained the rules of the class, and asked them to tell me about their dance experience. Since this was a beginning class, most of them had little formal training, for which I silently thanked God.
    The day ended. I had difficulty changing from my leotard into my school clothes because my hands were shaking so badly.
    I left school, arrived at my apartment, turned on the air conditioner, and collapsed on the bed. I wanted to stay there forever.
    What am I going to do? I can’t survive another day like this. I’m so tired I don’t want to get up. No matter how hard I try, I’m bound to screw up. It’s only a matter of time before I lose my job. What then?

Superintendent Donovan Cartwright
[from the 1959 yearbook]

    I was mad at myself for accepting the position, and I was mad at the superintendent for asking me to do the impossible. I felt betrayed. His daughter, for God’s sake, had taken years of dance lessons. How could I compete with her instructors who’d had years of training?
    If I were fired, I’d be the family failure. My two older sisters were already successful teachers. I could quit, but I might never be able to get another job. Our family motto was: Don’t be give up, a lesson our immigrant grandmother taught us when we were kids, reminding us not to be a quitters. I would do my best, no matter what difficulties I faced.
    I didn’t sleep much that night. I dreamed I was in an MGM musical, and just as I was about to dance with Gene Kelly, the director interrupted. “I understand you were fired because you couldn’t teach dance. We don’t want you in our movie.”
    I pleaded with him because it wasn’t every day a girl had a chance to dance with Gene Kelly, but the director threw me out.
    I woke up tired, confused, angry, and afraid. I didn’t want to return to school. This was only my second day, and I was already exhausted. How I could survive such stress for an entire year?
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The rest of Chapter 3 will appear on Wednesday, April 1.

Copyright © 2020 by Shirley Skufca Hickman