170
men, steeped in the Classics, is one of my positive experiences in this school.
As I remember it, starting school was not a traumatic experience; I went alone to the Fort Street Chinese Church and, without any ado, sat with other children in the kindergarten that was supported by the Free Kindergarten Association. In those days, there were no automobiles and very few hacks, so it was not unusual for me, at my age, to travel alone to a place where I attended church services with Mother every Sunday. One of our friends, Mrs. Chun Nam, even asked me to take her son to this kindergarten without the necessity of registering him beforehand. My teacher was a Japanese woman dressed in her native garb. This year left few impressions on me.
Accepted into Central Grammar School, I found my first-grade teacher, Miss Armstrong, a warm and conscientious person, who had many charts from which she drilled us in the sounds of the vowels and consonants and in the combination of these into words, using a pointer to guide us. Arithmetic was simple addition and subtraction or the reciting of the multiplication table, which could always be found on the back of our notebooks. The majority of the class were white children, and I did not feel comfortable enough to make friends with them. In the next three grades, I began to socialize with them and was included by them in play, as I was an active girl and swift on my feet when competing. As we advanced in years, the different races tended to chum around with their own ethnic groups. Many of the white children came from the army base and were driven to and from school in army vans. When Mrs. Carter retired, the school became less segregated.
Miss Smith was my second-grade teacher, a young lady of rather generous proportions. She was warm and likeable, yet firm. She taught me to sew carefully and neatly a miniature book, the pages of which served as a place for pins and needles, something I treasured for years. Promptness was imperative. One day, when I arrived late for class, I was so afraid of her that I went home, only to be sent back to school by Mother, another disciplinarian, after she scolded me for dallying with my morning chores. Without asking for any explanation, Miss Smith had me hold out a hand, and then whacked my palm with a ruler; I felt exceedingly embarrassed. It did not lessen my fondness for her, and I
170
men, steeped in the Classics, is one of my positive experiences in this school.
As I remember it, starting school was not a traumatic experience, I went alone to the Fort Street Chinese Church and without any ado, sat with other children in the kindergarten that was supported by the Free Kindergarten Association. In those days there were no automobiles and very few hacks, so that it was not unusual for me at my age to travel alone to a place where I attended church services with Mother every Sunday. One of our friends, Mrs. Chun Nam, even asked me to take her son to this kindergarten without the necessity of registering him beforehand. My teacher was a Japanese woman dressed in her native garb. This year left few impressions on me.
Accepted into Central Grammar School, I found my first grade teacher, Miss Armstrong, a warm and conscientious person, who had many charts from which she drilled us in the sounds of the vowels and consonants and in the combination of these into words, using a pointer to guide us. Arithmetic was simple addition and subtraction or the reciting of the multiplication table, which could always be found on the back of our notebooks. The majority of the class were white children and I did not feel comfortable enough to make friends with them. In the next three grades I began to socialize with them and was included by them in play, as I was an active girl and swift on my feet when competing. As we advanced in years, the different races tended to chum around with their own ethnic groups. Many of the white children came from the army base and were driven to and from school in army vans. When Mrs. Carter retired, the school became less segregated.
Miss Smith was my second grade teacher, a young lady of rather generous proportions. She was warm and likeable, yet firm. She taught me to sew carefully and neatly a minature book, the pages of which served as a place for pins and needles something I treasured for years. Promptness was imperative. One day when I arrived late for class, I was so afraid of her that I went home, only to be sent back to school by Mother, another disciplinarian, after she scolded me for dallying with my morning chores. Without asking for any explanation, Miss Smith had me hold out a hand and then whacked my palm with a ruler, I felt exceedingly embarrassed. It did not lessen my fondness for her and I
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