More horrors from Hillview

Will I ever forget how I tortured Mr. Wickstrom, my sixth grade teacher? Well, let’s face it, he was a little gropey, so maybe he deserved it. He would call us long-legged, short-skirted tweeny girls to his desk to go over a work assignment, and casually drape his arm around the backs of our knees. It felt like a violation, even in those naïve days half a century ago.


To combat a widely held conviction that I was teacher’s pet, I felt obligated to misbehave in a particularly obnoxious manner—screaming with laughter at his every serious utterance, whispering ostentatiously behind his back, making rude noises. I could tell he was miserable. Indeed, he would call me to his desk and speak to me privately, begging me to stop. But I was giddy with power and what felt like popularity for my leadership in hazing him. I heard he quit teaching the next year.