Bad Day at Bennett School

Early September 1946. My first day of public school. I was 6 years old, a gnarled veteran of 2 years of kindergarten at Miss Mcinnes’ and Ms. Steinberg’s, however, at these Crayola-permeated edifices of lower learning, I had benefitted from the comfort and protection of my adoring Aunt Gert, who had taken on teaching jobs at both institutions solely for those somewhat misguided purposes. Little Bobby Coskrey felt anxious and estranged in those alien atmospheres, having to lie down on wafer-thin rugs for naps next to all varieties of unwashed ruffians. He would much rather stay at home, play with his vast armies of toy soldiers, or indulge in some of his secret games such as water-ballooning unsuspecting passerby from the second-floor porch, or napalming ants and roaches with his homemade Black Flag flamethrower.

But the days of unfettered coddling, pampering, and special treatment were long gone now. I was in public school, Bennett Elementary, where the College of Charleston cafeteria is now located.

On this inaugural day, my mother walked me to 2 ¼ blocks from our house, down George Street, past the old blind black man selling pencils and brooms near the corner of King: “Pleeeze help the blind,” he would spout in a basso profundo voice, whenever he heard footsteps, scaring me the first time I saw him, since I had never seen a blind person before, and I didn’t understand his dark glasses and trance-like demeanor.

As usual, my mother snatched a handful of pencils and a couple of brooms without paying and ran down the street derisively screaming, “Gotcha’ again, old man,” dragging me behind her. (Oh, calm down, I’m only kidding—just wanted to see if you’re paying attention.)

We stopped, as we occasionally did, and my mother bought a couple of pencils, and gave them to me, saying, “Here, you can use these in school today, but for God’s sake, don’t run around with them, you’ll poke out your eye, or maybe both, in this case.” The resonant, “Thank you, Ma’am, God bless you” rang in my ears, as we scurried away.

As we reached the corner of St. Philip and George, a female crossing guard, Miss Hart, blew her whistle, held up her hands in the pose of some sort of superhero ready to push back the cars, and, with a smile, motioned for us to cross. Amazingly, all the vehicles obeyed her magic whistle, as we marched confidently toward the school. At the time, I recall thinking that she had actually been put there solely for me, until, appalled, I noticed other children getting the same service.

Bennett Elementary was a grey, concrete building with a foreboding aura. We entered through an iron gateway onto a dusty playground surrounded by trees. There were mothers with children all over the place, along with groups of bigger kids without parental escorts. Some of the younger children appeared to be being dragged by their mothers, a sight which suddenly made me feel a bit anxious, but we continued to walk briskly through one of the building’s arches, then on to a quadrangle area which led to a long, semi-dark hallway, where my mother, thankfully still holding on to my hand, said to me, “We just need to find Miss Kornahren’s class, room 1-a, now, Bobby.”

Fortunately, or perhaps otherwise, depending on your perspective, we found it within 30 seconds of her declaration, and stride into Miss Kornahren’s classroom. My mother shook hands with her and introduced me. Apparently, they knew each other, as did all Charlestonians of German descent, I was eventually to learn.

All teachers in those days, for you younger readers, came in two physical forms: 1) Thin, middle-aged females, with their hair pulled back so severely, they had Elsa Lanchester “Bride of Frankenstein” expressions, or 2) older and overweight with hairnet-encased white hair. Most were spinsters, quite a few of whom, in retrospect, would have been vanguard rider for “Dykes on Bikes” in another time. And all were addressed as “Miss,” regardless of their marital status.

Miss Kornahrens was friendly and had a nice smile. She took my hand gently and led me to a desk in the middle of the room: “You sit right here, Bobby.” I was a little miffed at not being placed in the front row, where Aunt Gert had always positioned me, until I eventually learned she was, in fact, doing me a favor.

I sat down amidst the commotion of other children and mothers going through the same ritual. I looked around at all the pictures covering the walls, obviously drawn and colored by other kids. I thought to myself, “Boy, those are really bad; if that’s all ti takes to get through this, I’ll be out of here in no time.”

All at once, my burgeoning confidence was demolished by a terrifying statement from mo mother: “Well, Bobby, I’m going now. You be a good boy, and I’ll pick you up around 2:30 right here in the classroom.”

Suddenly, I realized I was being left along for the first time in my life with a bunch of complete strangers.

“Where’s Gert?” I asked her, my eyes starting to fill.

Mother, taking hold of my hand (I noticed her eyes were brimming also): “Gert’s not going to be here, Bobby.”

Me, pathetically: “You—you mean they wouldn’t let her work here? Can’t Dada (my grandmother and family matriarch, with whom we all lived) make them?”

Mother: “No, Bobby, Gert and I can’t be with you while you’re in school, but Miss Kornahrens will be here and she’s a very nice lady who will take care of you. See all those other little children? They’re here to learn things, too, and they don’t have a Gert or a Mommy with them either, but they’ve got Miss Kornahrens, and all of you are going to have a good time together learning about all kinds of interesting things.”

To me, this explanation had the same spurious sound of Dr. Deas (or family physician) telling me that my first shot “will only hurt a little bit” before he plunged his one-foot-long “needle of doom” so deep into my smallish arm, I expected to come out the other side. I didn’t like the way things were shaping up at all.

My mother slowly released my arm and walked out of the room, stopping to wave goodbye at the doorway, a performance callously repeated by all the rest of the “Stepford Moms,” as they, one by one, deserted their innocent offspring.

I somehow managed to control myself during my first Mom and Gertless state, especially after I noticed that no one else in the room was having a hissy fit except a little girl.

The rest of the day, as I recall it, was a conglomeration of “Alice and Jerry” stories (the reading textbook), coloring and drawing, and playing on the jungle gym at recess. I met another boy, Richard, who had toy soldiers like mine. I was pleased, but at the same time, totally surprised, since up till then, I thought I was the only one who had them. This proved to be the first of many shocking revelations over the next few years that would show me that I was not special after all. And I met another boy, named Paul, who along with me, was the only other knicker-wearing boy in the school, a situation that was to later case me, and perhaps him, psychological trauma.

Although I was still in a state of semi-shock, I placated my nerves with soothing thoughts of my mother or Gert appearing at the classroom door at exactly 2:30, like an omnipotent angel of deliverance, here to whisk me out of the flaming bowels of Didactic Devildom.

2:30 arrived and there was no Mom. I was worried…yet.
She probably went to Kresse to buy me some soldiers as a reward for being a good boy and was delayed by crowds or a mistake-prone clerk.
2:45: No Mom. I began to get nervous. There were only two other kids left, along with Miss Kornahrens.
3:00: I’m nearing the breaking point. It’s just me and Miss Kornahrens who consolingly says that she knows my mother must be on her way. I figure she must have been kidnapped by Barbary pirates or killed bu a bus. Otherwise, she’d be here.
3:10: Miss Kornahrens tells me she is going to the office to call my home.
3:13: No Mom and no Miss Kornahrens either. I take immediate action. I run out of the classroom, down the semi-dark hallways, through the quadrangle, and out to the dust-laden playground. I go to the corner of the fence and peer pitifully down George Street. No Mom or Gert in sight. I see the old blind man a block away and the thought runs through my feverish mind that I’ll literally “cry my eyes out” and end up like him, all alone on another corner selling my toy soldiers.

I suffer a lachrymal explosion. I’m sobbing loudly. Tears are soaking my short-sleeve shirt and dripping onto my tweeduroy knickers. This is surely the end of my brief but happy existence.

All at once, a man in a khaki outfit, like one of my soldiers coming to life, and now lifesize, gently grabs my shoulders. It turns out to be Mr. Hart, the school janitor, and unofficial athletic director, conducting activities like softball and kickball at recess. In a gruff but kindly voice, he tells me not to cry. Miss Hart, the crossing guard, who is also his wife, comes over, and for the time being, I regain some measure of composure by pretending they are both fellow soldiers there to aid me after I’ve just suffered a near-mortal wound during the Battle of Bennett School Playground.

Just as I catch the Harts exchanging “What in the Hell are we gonna do with this screamin’ brat” glances, I look up beyond Mr. Hart’s watch, with his big hand on the 25 and its little hand on the 3, to see the beatific face of my mother.

For reasons that only a psychiatrist could fathom, I do not recall to this day why my late mother did not show up on time at this most important occasion. I’m sure she must have told me, and maybe I simply blocked the answer out of my mind.

Nevertheless, as a student at the College of Charleston many years later, I would break out into a cold sweat whenever I walked or rode by what used to be the old Bennett School campus, and even now, every year, on the first day of public school, I put on a pair of knickers and take a school janitor and crossing guard out to lunch. Most of them are very understanding, once I relate the story to them, but they always seem to leave very quickly once lunch is over.

If Dada were here, I bet they would stay.