My father and my mother got to be my teachers

My father taught fourth grade at the elementary school I attended. I did not have him for my official teacher when I entered the fourth grade, but this year was different in school because they separated the students into three groups for the reading classes. These were the higher level reading students, average level and low level. My father taught the higher level, so I wound up with him as a teacher one hour every day.

This was a means of helping us adjust to the upcoming 6th grade, in which we would not be stuck in the same classroom every day. This was also done during the 5th grade.

My father was the only male teacher at the school. A lot of the boys were afraid of him because he had a reputation for pulling out the paddle to administer punishment and everybody said he could whip even hard than their own fathers. I wouldn't know. The other boys' fathers never tried to put the whup on me.

When I was in class, I was not permitted to call him "Dad." I had to call him "Mr. Ogolon." He practically treated me a little worse than he did at home, save for any beatings. Once I loudly yawned in class and exclaimed, "Oh, boy!" He screamed at me in front of everyone. For my first mid-quarter report card, he gave me a B for the class. (However, I was able to turn that into an A for the rest of the year.)

I really felt that there should have been a rule in place that said that teachers were not permitted to teach their own children or even allow them in the same school together. Even though my father only taught me one hour a day, it was hard getting through that hour knowing that everybody in class was carefully watching every interaction between me and father.

When I was a senior in high school, I wound up with my mother as a teacher. She taught Distributive Education and was in charge of the school's chapter of Distributive Education Club of America, or DECA. She more or less coerced me into her classroom. She wanted me in there because she know I would do well in the regional and state DECA competition.

One day, before school, my mother asked me to go get some gum and bring it to her in class. I came in the classroom and said, "Hey, Mom!" and tossed her the gum. She told me later that me that my calling her "Mom" was a glass-shattering moment for her. She didn't mind me calling her "Mom," and didn't ask me to call her "Mrs. Ogolon." She was upset because, for years, students would call her "Mom" and she would respond by saying "I am not old enough to be your mother." That day, she realized she could no longer say that.

I would like to add that Loyd never had to deal with having Dad or Mom as a teacher.