Traditional Jewish Jokes and Anecdotes, Part 8

The First Day of School

This is a story set in the hinterlands of America during the early 1950s. Like all such anecdotes, it starts off in normality and works its way through increasing complications, repetitions and variations, until it achieves its climax in a shocking punch-line. But in the style of Jewish wit, the shock at the end is not the end of the story; it is only the point from which you go back to the beginning, break apart the seeming patterns of the everyday and the profane, to discover the sacred senses. 

On the first day of school all the children in Miss Parkinson’s class were nervous, especially the new boys and girls, and that year, for some reason, there were many.  Life was becoming very difficult again.  She could see the pupils coming up the street, cautiously walking into the schoolyard, and then standing in little clusters or all alone, as they waited for the bell to ring.  Mr. Fitzroy, the Principal, had warned her several weeks ago that there would be a fair number of new entrants from outside the city, even out of state, this year.  She assumed there would be no trouble, but as she looked out the window, saw the different faces, she realized she would have to be careful and do her best to create a harmonious class.

The bell rang.  The tidily-dressed boys and girls lined up, waited for the older monitors to give them the lead, and then they all marched up the stairs, some to this room, some to that.  Without much noise, perhaps because of their shyness, and so many new comers, the usual whispering and banging of desks did not happen.  It was not total silence but enough so as to be remarkable.

Miss Parkinson stood in the front of the room.  She pointed to the American flag hanging in the corner, and most children knew what to do, so the whole group acted almost as one.  When she said “Pledge,” arms went up over their hearts, and the formulaic rolling sentence was intoned.  This was a good start, she thought. No one objected to the additional phrase “under God” inserted into the text, though some n Then when they sat down again, the teacher remained standing.  She addressed them with authority but also with a kind of caring attention that seemed to assuage some of the more nervous faces she could see before her. 

“My name is Miss Parkinson,” she said.  “I will be your teacher for this year.  This is Class 3-A, the third grade.  We will have a lot of important things to learn and it can be fun if everyone obeys the rules.” She took a big breath.  “I am sure you will all be good students.”

The children stared, not really knowing what to expect, but happy to have a friendly voice in front of them. They were old enough to have opinions of their own, or at least to absorb political and moral principles from their parents.

“Now, boys and girls, because there are so many new children in this class this year, instead of reading the role, as I shall do every morning after this, I want you each in turn to stand up.  Tell the class your name, where you live, where you come from, what your father does, and what you want to be when you grow up.” 

Then she wrote a list of the questions on the blackboard, so everyone would remember what they had to say.  Now there was a bit of murmuring, as the children tried to understand what was being asked of them, and so a few hands went up.

“Yes?” the teacher said.

One child wanted to know if they had to tell the truth, another if they had to say things their parents told them not to reveal in public, and another asked what to say if they didn’t know what their fathers did for a living. Someone asked if they could say what their mothers did.

“Just do your best,” said Miss Parkinson.  “Let’s start here in the front row and the boy on my left.”

The children had marched in single file in order of height, so there was a diverse mixture of boys and girls, former pupils and newcomers. 

The first boy stood up and began, “My name is Timmy Jones.  I live at 223 Greenpebble Street.  I have always lived there.  My father sells cars and tractors.  When I grow up I want to be an airplane pilot.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” the teacher said.  “That was very good.  You may sit down now.  Next,” she said, pointing at a girl with two braids.

“Hello, everybody,” she started.  “My name is Mary Jane Riley and I live in the big house at the end of Appleton Court.  When I was little I lived in another town called Jamestown.  My father is a policeman—but he won’t arrest you if you are good”—and she giggled, as did many of the children in the class.  “When I grow up I want to be a teacher or a nurse.”

“Very interesting, Mary.  Now the next one is you.”

Another little girl stood up.  She had dark hair and a dark face.  She seemed to tremble a little.

“My name is Petunia Blackstone.  I come from the big city ‘cause my father lost his job.  We live in an apartment on a big street, but I can’t remember its name.  When I grow up I want to be a mommy.”

The class laughed.

Miss Parkinson shushed them and said, “Thank you, Petunia.  That was very nice.  You may sit down now.”

Then came a very thin boy who said: “I am Frank Washington.  I live at 5543 Mullbury Street in a nice green house with lots of trees to climb.  My dad, well, he gets lots of different jobs but mostly stays at home with m y baby brother.  My mother works in a dentist’s office and answers the telephone.  I want to be a wrestler when I grow up.”

He was followed by another shy little girl who stood silently for a while, until Miss Parkinson asked her to “Speak up, please.  Everybody is waiting for you, sweetie.”

“I’m sorry.  I—I—my name is Edith Louise Johnson.  I come from far away, in a big city in the north called Chicago.  My daddy works for the newspaper.  I want to write for newspapers too when I grow up.”

After five more boys and girls introduced themselves, all following more or less the directions written in big white letters in chalk on the blackboard, it was the turn for a rather chubby boy near the back of the room.

The teacher pointed to him and said, “Your turn.”

He seemed to hesitate, unsure of what he was supposed to do.  He hopped from foot to foot, stared at the teacher, looked around the room at the faces expectantly staring at him.  Then he seemed to have an inspiration and stood up. 

“My name,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “is Moses Markowitz.  Everybody calls me Moe.  My family has been in this town for three generations.  I live at 43 Crescent Drive.  My father sells fine suits for men and dresses for ladies.  His father did that too.  You can get a good bargain with us.  And I pledge two hundred and fifty dollars.”