108 Teachers - Teacher #1 Mrs. Arena (First Grade Teacher)

 Teacher #1 - MRS. ARENA

First Grade Teacher

The first real lesson I remember came from a puddle of pee spreading across a first-grade classroom floor. It wasn’t mine—it belonged to a boy a few seats ahead and to my right. I had a perfect view. The puddle formed quietly, then spilled over like a slow waterfall, making its way to the floor.

My teacher was Mrs. Arena. Doesn’t everyone remember their first-grade teacher?

She was older, sensibly dressed, dark-haired, stern, humdrum, and unmistakably teachery. Or, more accurately, she was Sergeant Arena. She ran that classroom like a low-stakes military operation—tight lines, sharp commands, zero tolerance for bodily functions.

She ordered the boy—who shall remain nameless—to stand and reveal the damage in his school-kid khakis. You could hear the slosh in his shoes as she marched him to the back of the room. The class stared, barely containing their laughter.

I didn’t laugh. My eyes were wide, and I felt something else entirely—secondhand humiliation. A seed was planted.

By then, I was already outgrowing Sergeant Arena’s Dick-and-Jane, “Look-see” method—outdated even back then. The texts were painfully dull and unintentionally hilarious:

“Come down, Dick. Come and see. See the big, big mother…”

Oh, I see Dick. We all see Dick. That seems to be the entire curriculum.

Honestly, Sergeant Arena seemed to believe repetition alone would drill literacy into our skulls. Look. Look. LOOK.

If we stared at Dick long enough, surely enlightenment would follow.

It did not.

And while the Sarge obsessed over Dick and Jane, the real lesson had already soaked in—and it had nothing to do with reading.

It was the puddle.

Not long after, I had to pee during class. I think we were learning about the Iroquois and wampum, but all I could think about was not becoming that boy. I raised my hand and asked Sergeant Arena for help—specifically, help unbuckling the shoulder straps of my brand-new jumper, a plaid pinafore my dad had bought me the night before at Barkers Department store.

Everyone knows a girl can just lift her dress. Sergeant Arena did too.

“We don’t have to unbuckle straps, do we?” she snapped.

This time, the class didn’t hold back. They laughed. My head dropped, hot with shame, as she dismissed me to the bathroom alone.

Message received, Sergeant.

I don’t remember the lessons. Not the worksheets. Not even most of the kids.

But I remember the puddle.

And I remember the moment I realized—quietly, firmly—that adults don’t always know what they’re doing.

Ask anyone to name their first teacher, and they almost always can. Not because of what was taught—but because of how it felt.

So before there was Sergeant Arena, before the puddle, before Dick, Jane, and Puff… there was an earlier lesson.

Let’s go back.

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Self-Reflection:
Think of a moment when an authority figure embarrassed or dismissed you. What did you learn about power—or compassion—from that experience?