Mimetalker's Blog

a mime is a terrible thing to waste.


Illinois, USA
January 26
On this blog: All words (other than identified quotations) © Sharon Nesbit-Davis, All rights reserved. *********************************** ********************************** You can find me on Facebook: Sharon Nesbit-Daivs, or "The Mime Writes" Logo Design by Dianaani ********************************** I work as the Education & Community Engagement Director of a Regional Arts Council which means I beg "the deciders" to fund and support the arts for everyone, not just the rich. *********************************** I am also a mime. For those that hate mimes, I understand. But you'll never find me annoying people on the street, unless I'm living there. I'm a "concert mime" ...which means you have to buy a ticket. I haven't done much mime lately...I'd rather be writing. *********************************** I've been married to my one and only since 1976. Still happy. Still in love. Two kids, eight grandkids. In college I became a Baha'i (a world religion whose main theme is unity). It keeps me relatively sane in a world gone mad.


Editor’s Pick
JANUARY 9, 2013 4:43PM

Crayons, Warts, & Magic

Rate: 10 Flag

I used my brothers’ new crayons and wrote every letter I knew on our bare wood stairs. My mother screamed when she found it and blamed my older brothers. She did not accuse me because I wasn't in school yet. My brothers denied involvement, pointed out clues and named their suspect. “Sharon did this.” The “S” was perfect but the E was backward with six lines. Both of them were too smart to write the letter “E” like that. And too smart to write on steps. I refused to confess until Mother said God knew who did it and He didn't like liars.

My punishment was scrubbing if off. Wax had seeped into the soft wood fibers so there was a trace left. My parents pointed it out to my relatives when they came for a visit. They scolded but smiled. “You should know better. How did you learn letters?” I shrugged because I didn’t want to get in more trouble.  One of my father’s thick books was hidden under my bed. It was filled with letters and I knew these letters became words. I stared until my eyes stung, but couldn’t read them and was afraid I never would. I might be as dumb as my brothers said I was. 

I went to kindergarten but it was a wasted year. I already knew everything the teacher did.

The next year my first grade teacher, Mrs. Crim, stood and waited until the only sound in the room was the clock ticking. She waited for it to click ten times. “First graders, this year you will read. It is my job to teach you and your job to learn.”  Those words made her my favorite person in the world. I thought I would love her forever.

She gave us tests and placed us in groups. I was a "Bluebird". We read about Dick, Jane, Sally, Puff and Spot. They liked to "see" and "go" and "look" and "stop". I loved reading about them because I was reading. It didn’t matter they were dumb and boring.

By spring Dick and Jane and Sally were running, jumping, riding and sitting. And by then it was clear the "Bluebirds" were the smart kids.  I was afraid Mrs. Crim made a mistake with me and I’d be put back with the "Red birds" like Danny. She warned it could happen to any of us.  

One morning the bulletin board by my desk was covered with brown paper. There was red peeking out the top corner and blue sticking out the bottom. I raised my hand. Mrs. Crim glanced over my handwriting paper and frowned. “This is right. Is there something you don't understand?"

I pointed to the bulletin board. “What's under there?”

“It is something we’ll do this afternoon.”

“Is it a game? Do we guess what it is?”

“No, it isn’t a game.”

“There are things sticking out.” I got up to point them out and since I was close, I sniffed, but smelled only stiff paper. 

“Sit down and get back to work.”

“But Mrs. Crim, I’m done.”

“Then write another page.”

It was hard to work on letters I already knew, when there was there was a secret something a few feet away. I thought about monsters with flaming eyeballs chasing children, their one escape was the river but only the youngest and smallest girl could swim. She had to save them all...

After lunch I asked if it was time, but Mrs. Crim said, “Later.”

We took our pencils and drew straight lines to match shapes. Then we colored apples red and leaves green and the tree brown. Then we practiced the letters we practiced in the morning.

Finally Mrs. Crim announced afternoon recess.

“Teacher? Will we find out what’s under the paper when we get back?” She didn’t answer.

When we got to the playground I reminded Mrs. Crim we were running out of time. She crossed her arms and looked over my head at the boys on the baseball diamond. "Go play." 

I asked other kids what they thought it was. The girl Mrs. Crim liked best thought it was the pictures she had drawn for her. A boy Mrs. Crim didn't like, thought it was a new window. Someone guessed “Candy” and then everyone did.

After recess Mrs. Crim stood at the front of the room. We sat straight up, hands folded on the desk, eyes on her, counting clock ticks.  I squeezed my legs together and held my breath.

“Stand up, push in your seats and come to the bulletin board.”

Chairs and shoes scrapped the floor. Kids fought for position.

“Class, spread out so everyone can see.” 

Tall ones moved to the back without being told. She waited until everyone claimed their spot then made changes. Danny could not stand next to Michael. Walter always had to stand next to Mrs. Crim. I changed spots with Marcia who couldn’t see through me.

“Mrs. Crim? Should we close our eyes?” Her back was to me, but she recognized the voice. “That isn’t necessary, Sharon.”

She ripped off the paper and there was a collective gasp and a few groans. No candy. It was decorated with bright tissue paper flowers and lined with crepe paper waves. In the center was an eight letter word. Twice as many letters as any of the words I knew. “I want everyone to try to read this word. But...“Bluebirds”, when you figure it out keep quiet. Give the other students a chance.”

My stomach jumped. I looked at the word again and glanced at the other Bluebirds. Everyone's lips were were still moving. No one knew this. I sounded it out every way I could think of. Nothing worked. And then suddenly it did.


It jumped out of my mouth before I could stop it, but I was happy. I was smart. I really was smart.

I do not remember the reactions of other students. I remember Mrs. Crim's mouth. Her bottom teeth were crooked and spit drops flew in every direction. I stared at the wart above her right eye to keep from crying. 

Mrs. Crim was sick. And she was tired. Sick and tired of my questions. Sick and tired of my disruptions. Sick and tired of me not following her rules and making the other kids laugh. She did not want to hear another word from me again. "Not one word".

That is what I remember. I know she said more because my legs shook from standing so long. I would have apologized when she was done, but by then had taken a silent vow to never speak to her again.

After that day, I no longer asked questions or volunteered answers to hers. If she asked me a question, I nodded, shook my head, or shrugged. I held my pee during class, and the day that didn't work, took off for home during recess and pretended to be sick. That wasn't hard because I felt sick every day for the rest of the year.

I had a daydream that never came true.

Mrs. Crim asks me to stay after school to talk. She looks sad. She says the class is too quiet now. She wants me to ask questions again. She wants me to make the kids laugh with my silly stories."Sharon, I miss you." Then I tell her how sorry I am and cry. She hands me her embroidered handkerchief and smiles and all is forgiven. I love her and school again.  

At the end of the year Mrs. Crim smiled as I left and said, “Have a good summer!” but she said that to everyone. I looked at her wart, which looked bigger and uglier. With my mouth set in a firm line, I nodded, then ran.

Our family went to the library every week. I brought stacks of books home and read every one. I liked rainy days so I could stay inside to read, and was caught at night with a flashlight under the sheets. My parents told people at church. "Sharon reads all the time." They laughed and smiled when they said it and I hoped that meant I didn't need school any more. But when summer ended they said I had to go back. My oldest brother told me I had to go to school for ten more years. I thought he was lying.

I don't know if Mrs. Crim is alive.  My mother sent clippings when my teachers died, but Mom isn't around to do that now. If I ever see Mrs. Crim again, I’d thank her for teaching me to read, and tell about the other lessons. That year I learned I was smart. I learned the discipline of silence and discovered the world inside me.

Mrs. Crim was not the only adult who tried to break my spirit...she was the one who made me protect it. 






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I was also a reader. I read the sports section of the newspaper without fail from first grade on. I would also read the comics and reading the comic led to bigger words and the statistics taught me math. I never really learned anything useful in school, until I found out my need to write. I should have went to college, I had a free ride and i blew it. I kick my own ass everyday for not going. a Beautiful post M>
I can soooo relate to this - I compliment your ability to remember the good lessons, rather than just the way you felt at the time.
It is amazing how so many of us had a similar experience in school. It's also amazing how differently it affected us. You found strength in over complying while I found strength in refusing to accept anyone's right to dictate to me when I would or would not speak.

I still, at 71, accept no "authority" telling me what to do, say, or think unless I voluntarily and without coercion, decide to authorize them to do so. It hasn't been an easy life. But then I don't suppose that yours has been any easier.

This is a gem of a piece, Sharon. ~r
Such a rich piece, Sharon! You have woven in so many important thoughts about education, motivation, creativity, everything we all experienced as children.

What a huge responsibility to be a teacher, to provide tools and nurture curiosity. How easy to misstep and crush the wee flowers underfoot.

I'm rating this because you have written like a good teacher, with gentleness and a clear eye. Super great. You get a big GOLD star!
Exceptional piece, Sharon. I think this is some of your strongest writing ever.

Teachers have such a huge responsibility. I'm glad you didn't let Mrs. Crim silence you forever. You are strong and resilient. I wonder about the children who aren't blessed with such resiliency and determination and the "Mrs. Crims" in their lives.