Here Is The Latest In My Series Of Crazy Dreams!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       Theater queens of a certain age, like myself, can never forget Priscilla Lopez as Diana Morales in "A Chorus Line," and her song, "Nothing."  As should be no surprise to anyone who has heard that song, everyone in life, at one time or another, encounters a Mr. Karp.  Sometimes several.  This dream I had recently pointed out some of the ones I remember.

                                         The dream was a school dream, which, as David informs me, is a common source of dream anxiety.  In my dream, I was in a classroom, taught by a non-descript, but imposing looking woman.  The subject was Social Studies, and she handed us out a work sheet, which was some kind of research assignment we were to complete at home.  I looked it over, and, while I was a good researcher--and was it real life; hell, it was part of my profession--the questions and references were incomprehensible to me.  Today, I would question all this, saying, "But you never taught us any of this!"  In the dream, I was back to the child I was, who never dared question a teacher on anything, though now I wish I had.  Hence, these type of dreams.

                                             Oh, and by the way, Social Studies, or History, was always one of my best subjects!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                            The scene then changed to another classroom.  Same woman, but a different subject--Math.  Almost the same scenario; the teacher says to do, for homework, the problems on pages 63 and 64, in our textbook.  Fine, except when I looked at the pages, I realized the concepts and ideas needed to solve the problems had not been taught to us.  It was like, literally, throwing the book at us, and leaving us to fend for ourselves.

                                              Which is how I felt about the Mr. Karps of my day, in junior high and high school.  Two taught Math, and one taught Science.  Eighth grade was the worst year of my life, to date, because of all the bullying I was subjected to, which paled in comparison to being subjected, each day, to Messrs.  Robert Barber, and John Frankowsky.  Wherever they be, now, my sentiments to them are exactly the same as Diana Morales, at the end of "Nothing."  Mr. Barber taught Math--or did he?  He never was able to get through to me, and, while I can now accept that I was just not wired for  Math, or anything associated with it, as a career option,  Mr. Barber, looking back did not especially teach well.  He always look disheveled, his jacket covered with chalk, and his voice droned on, and his attitude came across as one who was tired of the teaching profession.  I got the impression he just did not care, even when I went to him for help.  The thing was, I was pissed that year, for not having been chosen to take Algebra in the Eighth Grade--until I found out that Mr. Barber was the one who taught, and several of the very bright kids I knew who did take it that year, had to repeat it in Ninth Grade.  And so I realized it was not just me--it was Mr. Barber.  Up to then, I had always done well in Math, though it was never my favorite subject.  But, perhaps because of my parents, or a desire to make good money, I then had this now very abstract idea I would go into some area of Math or the sciences.  Not so.  However, Mr. Barber destroyed any ounce of interest I had in the subject.  The irony of it all is that, when I took the PSAT's, I did better on  the Math than the Verbal Section.  I actually cried.  And, then, when I took Geometry, I aced that.  Go figure.

                                                  Jumping ahead a bit, I suffered a similar outcome under Mr. Sprout, who at the time, was Chairman of the high school Math Department, and whom I had for Trigonometry.  He actually taught, or did not, the first marking period, throwing the book at us, and telling us to do it ourselves.  Either it did not work, or so many of us complained to our parents, because, after our parents went to Back To School night, getting a taste of what we were exposed to each day, Mr. Sprout announced he was abandoning this approach, and going back to traditional teaching.  He tried his best, but I got the impression he was bored, too, like Mr. Barber.  He had been at the school since 1958, when my sister graduated, and before that.  I did fine in  Trig, until we got to logarithms, I was lost.  I had several help sessions with him, but they never took.  Again, I don't think I was wired for this, and was unable to accept that, back then, but Mr. Sprout's teaching did not help, either.

                                                     One thing I will say for Barber and Sprout.  They both realized I was trying my hardest, and I think they noticed I was at least making an effort, so I squeaked through their classes I felt I would have done better in, with different teachers, a smaller class, or a different approach.  The following year, after my poor performance in eighth grade, I took something called Pre-Algebra, which was Algebra I, over two years.  I had Mrs. Eden, a real character, nice lady, and did very well.  She seemed to enjoy teaching; even while reprimanding students.

                                                       Mr. Frankowsky was more insidious.  Well groomed, and polished, he would play nice, then hand back work to me that said, "Do this assignment again!"  He never seemed to grasp that I was making an effort, and it was from him I got the ONLY Deficiency Slip I have ever received in my life.  He wasn't bored, or boring; just felt that if everyone else could get it, why couldn't I?  But, then, I never questioned my classmates on this--I wouldn't have dared, then!--so who knows; maybe I was not the only one.  

                                                        All that said, part of it was my fault.  I suffered the sin of Pride.   Mr. Frankowsky threw me out a lifeline, when he got one of my classmates, Jonathan Weinstein, to tutor me during some study periods.  I quit after a couple of sessions, not because of Jonathan, who was great, but because of my embarrassment.  I last saw Jonathan at our 25th Reunion, and never got a chance to thank him, so, Jonathan, if you are still out there, thank you very much, and not continuing with you has been one of my past regrets.

                                                       At the same time, my mother, through a friendship with the mother of a student in my class, Barbara Hellwig, said Barbara would offer to work with me.  I turned down this opportunity, again out of Pride.  To Barbara, who I know is out there, I offer a belated thanks, and regret for the opportunity extended.

                                                      However, it was not Jonathan or Barbara who were teaching these classes.  They were with me in the the Eight Grade classes, but not with Mr. Sprout.  I am sure I could have come to them, but my pride stood in the way.  And they were not being paid to teach me; these men were.   And that I aced Geometry and Math on the PSAT indicated I had some inherent potential.

                                                        Alas, these teachers did....."Nothing."

                                                        Hence, my dream.  Perhaps more induced by the thought of

more cardiac procedures.

                                                          

                                                            "Six months later, I heard that Karp had died.                                                                                                     And I dug right down to the bottom of my soul,                                                                                        And cried.                                                                                                                                                           "Cause I felt....'Nothing.' "

                                                        I get it, Priscilla!  Boy, do I get it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!