It All Went Down on His Permanent Record

An acquaintance recently remarked that she had not improved as a person during her 30-some years of life. She claimed to be suffering from the same character faults she displayed as a child, to have simply replicated her flawed behavior for three decades or so, to be “the same gutless, self-doubting little girl” she had been in grade school.

“Nonsense,” I said. “Everyone changes. Some of us even get better.”

“Wrong,” she said. “I’ve got my report cards from elementary school. I haven’t changed a bit. It’s all there--in writing.”

Skeptical, I went home and dug out the scrapbook my mother kept for me for 18 years, which contains my report cards from first through sixth grades. The paper was yellowed in places and tattered in others, but the writing was very clear. On the page facing each grade card was our class picture.

The notice on the cover of the first card read:

This report is to acquaint you with the progress of your child toward two major purposes: first, that your child shall become a desirable citizen of our democracy, and second, that he or she shall meet reasonable expectations of achievement.

Turning inside, I read about my “Personal Habits and Attitudes” at age 6. These characteristics were rated on a scale of Satisfactory; Has Shown Improvement; or Needs to Improve.

I was pleased to learn that so far as respecting property, courtesy, rights of others and showing wholesome interest in group play, I had rated Satisfactory. However, in getting along with others, observing rules and showing self-control, I got the dread Needs to Improve.

My teacher, Mrs. Cooley, had this to say in writing: “Jeff is still too rough at times on the playground. In the classroom he still talks without permission too frequently.”

I looked across the page to our class picture, to find myself hunched inside a sweater I remember as red, my crew-cut head shining with an almost lunar glow, the missing front teeth resulting in a gummy, if enthusiastic smile.

Looking back on my behavior that year, I had to admit that Mrs. Cooley was being a bit generous. I remembered that she had given me attaboys for organizing a recess game called “Hawks and Vultures.” I lined up all volunteers along the chain link fence and alternately knighted each kid a Hawk or a Vulture. Mrs. Cooley found this “leadership potential” laudable.

The next part of the game was for all Hawks to stay in line and all Vultures to scramble to the opposite side of the playground. At the command “Charge!” we then ran at each other, confronting an enemy and endeavoring to beat him or her to a pulp. Mrs. Cooley was horrified at the violence and banned the game forever from Guin Foss Elementary in Tustin.

I was clearly not on my way to being a desirable citizen of our democracy.

Grade two found me under the strict discipline of Edith Fuller. My class picture reveals a boy with four colossal front teeth dominating a face too small to accommodate them, the same glowing crew-cut head, the same calculating little eyes.

Mrs. Fuller noted:

“Jeff did well when arithmetic combinations were easy, but when any effort was involved he just purely guessed and shows no effort. He is trying hard to overcome his habit of not finishing assignments. Encourage him to do good work--he can be very careless without recognition.”

Third grade, under the tutelage of Janet Baxter, was a trying time.

The picture reveals a still shiny-headed little gnome, straining to cover his immense teeth with undersized lips. The result is a kind of faux smile, more an attempt at concealment than at joy. I looked like a squirrel waiting to stash nuts.

Mrs. Baxter was brutally honest; self-control, considering the rights of others and appreciating the contributions of others were still in dire need of improvement. I often attempted to use the “short-cut approach to quick completion,” which was not “conducive to good performance.”

Moreover, “he enjoys the company of a ‘chosen’ few and does not see the value of participating with the group as a whole, accepting the weak with the strong and making the best of it. I know if he applies himself he can do well.”

Fourth grade was the first year for which we actually received letter grades on our cards. I got my worst reviews so far.

There were A’s in spelling and reading, but Cs for arithmetic and science. The only Excellent I got for subjects not letter-graded was in handwriting, countered by a Needs to Improve in classroom music.

My teacher, Signe Paine, seemed to have my number:

“Improvement shown, though I still have to separate Jeff and his little ‘gang.’ When corrected Jeff thinks you have it in for him. He often disrupts class discussions with irrelevant remarks. But I’m trying very hard to understand his needs.”

So far as academic achievement and citizenship went, there wasn’t much to brag about:

“Unsatisfactory in most areas because of poor effort. Has potential for leadership but is not directing it in a satisfactory direction. Has been violent and belligerent. Poor self-discipline. Excels only in handwriting.”

Fifth grade represented a dramatic turn-around.

Between the stern discipline of Mom and Dad, the punishing honesty of my teachers, my discovery that girls hated bullies, and the fact that I didn’t have many friends, I realized that I needed to clean up my act.

I got five A’s and three Bs with only one Needs to Improve. I wasn’t absent one day all year. Mrs. Herron noted: “A fine student. Jeff is doing much better work this semester.”

She described my citizenship as “Good”!

I ran for class vice president and got beat by Linda Kampenga, but I ran a clean, issue-oriented campaign.

My scrapbook ends with grade six, as if I’d been launched directly into adulthood upon graduation from Mrs. Wheeler’s class.

The grades were good--seven A’s and only one B--but Mrs. Wheeler’s comments seemed to harken to a haunted past:

“Jeff is a good student. He shows much enthusiasm in certain areas. He is interested in individual work and shows impatience with slower children. He has a great deal of self-confidence, which is generally well placed. On the other hand, he has little patience with anything that doesn’t interest him. He has difficulty controlling his feelings and not expressing his opinions orally.”

I set aside the scrapbook with the sinking feeling that my friend was right: You could modify yourself a little if you tried hard, but the essences went unchanged. I’m sure that millions of people have impressive tales of self-actualization to tell, but I must count myself among those who feel pretty much defined by those incisive reports issued by grade-school teachers long ago.

I called my friend and told her of my research.

“Hey,” I said, “you are what you are. If we haven’t improved much in 30-something years, why bother to start now? I think we should go with our strengths.”

“I don’t remember any,” she said.

“Read the report cards again. You must have missed something.”

“I think there was something about moderate achievement and being a desirable citizen.”

“There you have it. You’re moderate, and desirable. The world needs more people like you. Get a grip.”

“You’re just impatient with what doesn’t interest you.”

“Isn’t it great?” I said, and hung up.