Block Letters

I wouldn’t have mentioned the nature of our
punishments — the slap, the strap and the pinch — except
that it is necessary in order to understand my parents'
indifference to the injustices of Mrs. Wagner’s sixth
grade class. I repeatedly explained to my mother what
was going on at school. I could not then put into
words my understanding of the situation however. My
mother assumed that if I was being punished there was
probably a good reason for it. It would not have even
entered her head that it was a psychotic situation.
Her response was invariably the same, “The teacher is
always right.” I was dealing with typical immigrant
mentality. Life was about one thing, going to college.
In order to go to college, the teacher must always be right.

Even though I did not know either the words
or the concepts, I could see that Mrs. Wagner was a sick,
disturbed woman who was looking for and inventing
opportunities to dole out punishments. This led to a
certain release of tension for me however, because if
punishments could not be avoided there was no reason
to try so hard.

The realization that I could have a teacher who took
pleasure in punishing children slowly altered and
colored my entire world view. I stopped thinking of
Utica as the center of the universe. I stopped
thinking that we lived in the "better" part of Utica. I
no longer felt that America was the best country.
Crazy thoughts would flash through my mind, crazy sick
and frightening ideas like, "From each according to
his abilities, to each according to his needs." I had
heard that someplace, why was it wrong.

We were fighting a war in Korea, perhaps we were in
the wrong. Needless to say I kept these thoughts to
myself.

This conflict came to a head over a sentimental
incident which still embarrasses me to think about. At
home my father had started to do drafting on the
dining room table. His day job was selling automobile
insurance, but at night he was creating large drawings
of objects to be manufactured in a factory. I do not
know what the objects were, I only remember big sheets
of paper with complicated shapes, little lines and
arrows and indications of size. These drawings were
brought to a place where they were copied and became
“blueprints.” Dad had gone back to high school nights
and learned drafting, now he was employed part time,
and this factory work was being done in the living
room.

The aspect that most fascinated me was the mechanical
lettering and the numbers, put in with a pencil but
drawn as if a machine had printed them. I began to
memorize the various lettering styles copying them out
of a book he had entitled “Mechanical Engineering.” I
memorized the old English alphabet first because it
was the most complicated, and after that I learned to
do block lettering. Very soon I had mastered these
skills to such an extent that I too had little jobs
and was making money with my lettering. I did all the
names on diplomas for a high school fraternity. For
25 cents I created name plates for my classmates
with letters that looked like blocks and went
back in space in perspective. And finally my
father began to realize that I was not a slow child,
and I am sure he thought to himself, “Well at least he
can draw.” #