My 6th grade teacher was Mr. Allen. He called himself “Chubby H.E.” But he wasn’t chubby. He was intimidating—strict in a scary/cool kind of way—a drill sergeant-type. He was a war vet (Korean, I think) who had a car accident and ended up a paraplegic. He taught class from a wheelchair. That only added to his mystique.
The fact that Mr. Allen was in a wheelchair was never an issue. No one talked about it. The only difference between him and the other teachers (besides teaching style) was the school administrators had installed metal bars on a concrete landing outside the back door of the classroom for Mr. Allen to exercise with.
One day I arrived at school early and to kill time walked around the blocks of classrooms, looking in the windows at the bulletin boards. Mr. Allen’s classroom was the last one on the outer edge of Gilbert Elementary School. I walked down the hall and rounded the outside of the building, heading toward the back. I stopped suddenly.
Mr. Allen was at his bars. I watched him struggle to pull himself out of his chair and do arm dips—one after another, with determination.
The sight took my breath away. I stood there paralyzed and frightened that he would turn around and see me and I would die of embarrassment that I had witnessed something so private. But he didn’t see me and he continued his upper-body exercises as I backed up and got the heck out of there.
Just as Mr. Allen pushed himself, he pushed his students. He challenged us to learn and dished out plenty of homework. Parents loved him.
Mr. Allen (along with Mrs. Holmes in Grade 5 and Mr. Hamilton, my 10th grade world history teacher [enunciating with vigor: “Rasputin! Pillar of Putrescence!”] were my favorite teachers during my long stint in the Garden Grove Unified School District. I’ve often thought about my public education. I think GGUSD did right by me. I give it a B+/ A-. Points off for pesky rules (what to wear, classes to take, emphasis on conforming) and crummy cafeteria food—with the exception of Ellie’s snickerdoodles.
During my school years I had many kind teachers and many dedicated teachers (and a couple boneheads, to be honest). But I respected Mr. Allen the most. I remember what Mr. Allen taught us regarding the correct answer to a myriad of questions, such as:
“Why didn’t you finish your math problems?”
“What happened to your book report?”
“Did you put a wad of gum underneath your desk?”
“Why did you push Linda?”
Mr. Allen accepted only ONE answer: “No excuse.” As far as screw-ups went, there were no explanations, no justifications, no extenuating circumstances.
Q: “You’re late. Why?”
A: “No excuse.”
It’s funny that now in 2009 I’m reading Dr. Wayne Dyer’s book: Excuses Begone! (Subtitled: How to Change Lifelong, Self-Defeating Thinking Habits). I shouldn’t have to read it. Mr. Allen wrote that book decades ago.
He taught accepting responsibility for one’s actions. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten So, thank you, Chubby H.E.
I have “ne excuse” as to why I have not read these blogs about our days at Gilbert. I hope that there is mention of Sr. Moya and our Spanish lessons from him. Square dancing was always a fun thing to look forward too….Really?????
I hated square dancing. Which is why I took up the clarinet. We kids who played instruments got to leave class during dancing to practice playing instead. Whew–much better!
Do you remember the Spanish name Senor Moya gave you? I was “Tonita.” Also hated that.