Experiencing Liberty
Judi Jones' story
What could my parents have been thinking? What had they done to me? It was September, 1963, the Space Age. President Kennedy, from his throne in Camelot, had announced that in a few short years the moon would be the destination for our NASA astronauts. This was “The New Frontier” in which “uncharted areas of science and space” were being explored. So why was my mom pulling up beside this ancient, two-story, peeling stucco school building out in the country, in the middle of nowhere, to let me off? They had ripped me away from Westlawn Junior High School—a modern, large and sprawling campus where just a few months ago I was a 7th grader, daily rubbing shoulders in the hallways with lofty and revered 8th graders and (gasp) freshmen; attending 6 classes where I rarely saw the same classmates twice in one day; and was even permitted to gaze reverently upon football heroes (albeit from a proper distance) such as Robbie Patman, Dennis Pate, and Randy Jones, who played every Thursday night before hundreds of adoring fans in Grim Stadium, a huge concrete and steel structure that was the envy of many small colleges.
Mom let me out at the side entrance where only a few students were entering the old, run-down relic and thereby allowed me to avoid stares from the larger group that was gathering in front of the building. My younger brother, Keithie, had sprung from the car eagerly as he caught sight of some of his baseball buddies from the past two summers. I, on the other hand, who had met only two of my known future classmates, Becky Bruce and Connie Rauh, slowly dragged myself from the car, desperately wanting to inspect my mother’s head to see if she had any brains left in there at all!
Approaching the old, creaky building and being an observant child, I noticed the door was standing open, which quickly dispelled any hope that this place might, by chance, be air-conditioned. Once inside, I noted peeling paint, which was that non-distinctive neutral color school boards selected in those days that unintentionally (or not) coaxed kids to slide off into that sleepy, zoned out state; and wooden, oiled floors that were almost black, probably the result of mixing oil with decades of dirt and grime. And that smell---what was it? It burst into your unsuspecting nostrils, rendered you a little light-headed and nauseous then slowly left you with a dull headache. At any moment I expected to see Laura and Mary Ingalls with Nellie Oleson turn the corner donning bonnets and toting metal lunch pails.
As I entered, there were only two choices available for me—turn right and look for Laura and her friends or nonchalantly take a drink at the water fountain across the hall in front of me. As I chose the latter, I noticed a door to the left of the fountain marked “Girls.” Since I now knew two points of interest in this awful, unknown l place, I might just be able to fake that I had a clue where I was going. Just to the left of that door in the corner was a small nook, which I entered by a door labeled “8B.” This nook turned out to be my classroom. No, Miss Beadle was not, as I had expected, seated at the teacher’s desk, which was the only thing visible in the room from my point of entry. But to my surprise and delight, there sat a pretty, perky lady with upswept red hair wearing a smart two-piece suit and high heels! She looked strangely out of place here, but she smiled and spoke so sweetly that I immediately felt a little at ease. At least the teacher appeared to be from this century. Mrs. Kuykendall took my registration paperwork, gave me some instructions, and pointed out a desk for me that I quickly plopped myself into, hoping that no one had noticed my arrival. By then I could see the remainder of the room that was
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scattered with only a few boys and girls. Even though I felt as if I were much too sophisticated for this outdated and backward school, I had to admit that I was a little nervous about being the “new girl” in a strange environment. Suddenly, and to my utter astonishment and joy, there walking toward me with her beautiful smile was Linda Brown! I actually knew someone! We had met a few years earlier through my best friend from Wake Village Elementary School, Judi Gigliotti. We had all three actually spent the night together once at Linda’s. Linda remembered me; but I believe she was the sort of friendly person that had she not remembered me, she would have still attempted to make me feel welcome. She brought with her Margie Lewis, a pretty girl with freckles and the most gorgeous, shiny, strawberry blonde hair I had ever seen. These two were sent by God Himself, I felt, to reassure me that my life, as I knew it, was not over.
The classroom quickly filled and I became a little more relaxed as I intently scanned the room. There were no lunch pails, bonnets, slates, or inkwells in the desks, though there were holes for the ink bottles, a remnant from those bygone days when little boys stuck little girls’ pigtails in the ink that filled them; nor were any horses tied to a hitching post out back. There were, in fact, a lot of friendly faces that paid no undue attention to me. There was also another familiar face---tiny, sweet Mary Nelson who I had met at the Jaycee “Milk Bowl” tea in 5th grade when we had both been selected queens by our elementary school flag football teams. I was also elated to find Connie Rauh sitting there in my class. This wasn’t going to be so bad, maybe. I began to breathe a little easier, however hard it was with that odor..…until the bell rang.
At that point, I was astonished to learn that we, all 25 or so of us, moved together as one large walking unit to the second period class! Period after period this pattern continued throughout the morning. Was I back in elementary school? How demeaning was this?
How childish I felt realizing that we were required to stay together, moving from class to class like so many first graders. I noticed that there were other groups of students also moving together, maybe more like science fiction robots, from classroom to classroom. When lunchtime arrived, I was totally astounded! At Westlawn, after completing lunch, we had chatted in small groups around the campus outside, emulating mature college students, and ever so often even exchanging conversation with the upper classmen. But after lunch here, something very strange occurred. All the 8th grade girls in little friend-groups walked around this old fire-trap building one way, and the boys, similarly grouped, walked in the opposite direction! (I remember overhearing Larry Braswell one day comment on the shapeliness of Patty Davis’s legs to the other boys as his group passed hers! I determined quickly that Larry Braswell was definitely from this century!) My assumption was that I would be attending Liberty-Eylau Junior High, but on this day, I found out that there was no such school. I was horrified to learn that this actually was an elementary school----Liberty Elementary School!
It didn’t take long for my lightening-quick mind to figure out that there were three groups of eighth grade students—“8A,” “8B,” and “8C.” I had been placed, for some unknown reason, in “8B.” But what did that designation mean? The first painful thought that attacked my brain was that it had somehow been determined that I should be placed in the “dumb group.” I quickly dismissed that thought after the first few minutes in math class. That prospect had to be impossible because of Linda and Margie. They were brilliant students who were loved and adored by Mrs. Hopkins, our math teacher who hated everyone in the class but those two. She sang their praises while frowning
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disapprovingly at the rest of us. (Mrs. Hopkins deserves a story of her own. She was a horrible teacher. She tore down our self-esteem as she daily told us how inept we were at math. She would glare at us, snarl, and shake her head in disgust and disbelief at our math stupidity. But, as I said, she is another story.) I knew, also, that I had been in the top group in my reading and writing class at Westlawn and in the advanced English class---and, after all, Westlawn soared far above and beyond this place in educational excellence! So I dismissed the “dumb group” theory.
But why, then, was I in “8B”? What was the determining factor? A new thought hit me when 6th period arrived. While we were in Mr. Gauldin’s geography class, I looked out the window and saw that “8A” students were done for the day!! The athletes, all grouped together in “8A,” ran out onto the practice field for football practice as I sat in class gazing out at them. The band students, also from “8A”, whom I could some days see marching on the field, were out there having fun as I sat in class listening to Mr. Gauldin’s detailed instructions on our soon-approaching foreign country reports. And the two 8th grade cheerleaders, Angie McLeod and Kaye Stewart, also “8A” elites, were off to cheerleading practice—who knew where that was―as free as birds for that last, long hour of the day! I thought, “If only I could be in ‘8A’! I would be in with the “in-crowd!” I decided that was the key; that was how they had us divided up. They were the popular, involved, activity-oriented group! I could only longingly yearn to be in that class. I was forever doomed to my lowly estate in “8B.” (I remember also on that first day of school that Kaye was given the task of escorting me to the gym. As we walked together, I noticed her beautiful shiny, gold flats with glistening jewels of all colors on the toes. I thought,” This girl must really be rich--with those shoes!”)
As the days and weeks passed, I slowly began to feel a little more comfortable at Liberty. I really loved my PE class. Miss Kelly, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and who smelled heavenly---it was “White Shoulders” which still today brings back visions of Miss Kelly---was my PE teacher. Everyone adored her and, I suspect, we all wanted to grow up to be Miss Kelly. I really didn’t like basketball, but it was the sport we had to play in PE class, and I wanted to impress her as an athlete so I tried my best. (But I could not compete with the likes of Annie Mae Suggitt, Kathy Griggs, Barbara Robinson----they were the real athletes!) I was thrilled when I discovered that my cousin and his wife had attended Ouachita Baptist University with Miss Kelly and they had all been friends. We had a unique and close relationship after that discovery and I felt special when she asked me about them. Then I was so very happy to find there was actually a pep squad I could join and there were upper classmen—freshmen, who attended classes somewhere, who were in the pep squad with us, and I actually got to sit with them and chat on the pep squad bus and at the games. Yes, we did have football games to attend, but we played schools in little towns I had never heard of before. The stadiums were small with wooden or metal bleachers; but that didn’t matter, because with all these activities, school was now beginning to be fun and exciting for me again. And then there were those Eylau people. I didn’t know where they attended classes either, but we were all somehow united in this strange, chopped up, divided campus of elementary and high school students, even if only for short times and special events.
Back in “8B” things were better, too. I had made real friends with so many people now, both girls and boys. Connie Rauh and I had renewed our friendship from the previous
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summer. She was so sweet, good natured, and was always laughing. We could just look across the room at each other and laugh. And Kathy Griggs really broke me up! We laughed together all the way through high school, I suppose. She was so pretty with her olive complexion and beautiful eyes, and as I mentioned, was an excellent athlete. Annie Mae and I attended Sunday school and church together, too, so we became good friends. And, of course, my friendship with Linda and Margie continued to grow. Billy Horton was the class comedian who wrote mean, but funny things in my yearbook. His mom was our Sunday school teacher at West Texarkana Baptist Church and she entertained us with “Billy Boy” stories weekly. Edward Ratliff, Mike Whiseant, Wayne Beavers, and Perry Plunkett were a few of the kindest, most considerate boys in school, and they, too, resided in that now wonderfully sweet, pleasingly odd, and simply comfortable “8B” classroom.
As I look back today, Liberty Elementary was truly an amazing place. It appeared to be a throw-back to another century, and, in a way, it was---with the sweet innocence of unassuming students who liked you, not to benefit them in any way, but just because you were their classmate and you were going through the daily student life thing with them. They didn’t seek to impress at the expense of others’ feelings. They accepted you, not with reservation, but with open arms and truly made you feel a part of them immediately. There was no pretense, no jealousy, no gossiping, which are all too prevalent in so many larger, more modern, urban junior high schools where young teens fight tooth and claw to be accepted and to fit in. That just did not happen at Liberty.
So I suppose I ought to thank my parents—maybe they actually did know what they were doing that day my mom dropped me off at Liberty Elementary School. Maybe they had diligently inquired, thoroughly investigated, intelligently discussed, and logically reasoned that this was the perfect school for their daughter and son. And just maybe a lot of other parents had figured that out for their children, too.