Joyce School: Home Room, Band, and Mrs. Bitter

[I grew up in Ulysses and have a world of memories from those happy days. A recent online discussion brought to mind Joyce School and I wished to write about it a bit. The list of memories is long and happy, funny and real. We'll see how far along I will get.]

One hears much about "coming of age:" books and movies draw on this human reality ad infinitum and for good reason. I never really knew what it meant until I did, and now I know my "coming of age" happened from ages 11-16, though I suppose the smart people would tell me the season is shorter -- or longer -- than that.

Whatever the case, many vivid memories of that era come from a little school in Ulysses, Kansas named Joyce. I suppose, without research, the school received the moniker because an author named "Joyce" wrote a famous book named "Ulysses." Maybe the odds of such a highbrow genesis are slim. I don't know. [I'm told the name actually comes from early settlers of the area -- thanks to those who pointed that out!]

Joyce School in 1975-76 served as home office for the school district of the town, a district which comprised two elementary schools, a Junior High (7th and 8th grades) and a High School. Joyce, in addition to housing the district office, also had special education classes and, consigned to the upper floor, the sixth grade classes for the entire district.

This was the first year we had a home room and would go to other teachers for some subjects, getting us ready, I was told, for 7th grade when every subject would be taught by a different teacher. My home room teacher was Mrs. Twila Bitter. This was the first room on the right when you reach the top of the main entry stairs from the end of the building closest to the gym and across the street directly from the IGA.

Funny how this really was the beginning of growing up for me. At the end of the previous school year I had auditioned for band, French Horn in particular, and Joyce School would afford my first band experience. That happy adventure -- I really did love it -- gave fodder for a keen Joyce memory. But for now I wish to speak of home room and Mrs. Bitter.

Mrs. Bitter was distinctive, and even now I try to understand why. I liked her, even loved her, though she was no-nonsense and put up with zero disruption in class. I can still see her up front, holding forth on whatever math we needed that day. It's really amazing how almost no daily lessons come to mind yet the impact of her person will always remain with me.

I still remember her announcing -- or maybe the Principal came and did it -- she had completed her Masters degree at Hays State University. This was mysterious to my 11-year-old mind but I was still impressed that a woman her age had finished something that sounded really hard. And when she said she would transfer to Junior High the next year I was happy because I would be there, too, and she would give continuity.

It was in this home room my band experience came into full play after a typical afternoon concert in the gym. There were four players of French Horn, all variously assigned 4th chair depending on the grief we were giving the director, Mr. Wolf. In this particular concert some kind of distraction persisted and caught my attention fully. Whatever malady overtook my mind and actions, I was clueless. But, the record shows, I made all kinds of disruptions in between songs, chatting and laughing, jabbing friends in adjacent chairs, dropping books.

I was so oblivious that when I returned to home room for the last ten minutes before closing bell, I had no idea there was a problem. 

Enter Mrs. Bitter. 

I still feel the fear a little bit. She had seen everything. She was not happy, and proceeded to call me out before the whole class. I had been a constant distraction during the concert, she said, an affront to all that is right and holy. She did not hold back, and made clear this kind of behavior would not be tolerated and it better never happen again. There was no question in my mind -- it wouldn't!

I am sure I was ashamed. No doubt I felt the stinging pain of public humiliation. But I also knew Mrs. Bitter cared, and I knew she was right. I never did anything like that again.

I needed the correction, for there are countless problems with all of us in those crazy coming-of-age years. The next year Mrs. Bitter indeed moved to 7th grade and was home room for me again. When I finished High School, though we had moved across state, she sent me a graduation gift. Over twenty years later I included her in a family newsletter of sorts and she sent me a sweet reply letter.

I know she is gone now. Coming of age slips into all of life until age itself ends our days. But I will always be grateful for a woman like Mrs. Bitter. She was a solid point of reference in my life, someone who really cared and showed it in all the normal duties. Teaching must have been very hard -- who can do it? She could, and my life is much better because she did.

Joyce School