Kate's Point of View

Another of my Memory Box finds was some sheet of paper with school pictures from every grade except fourth. I am AOK with that picture missing because that was by far my worst hair year. I distinctly remember being told on the playground that it looked like I had stuck my finger in a light socket.

Let’s review:

• Grade 1: Cute
• Grade 2: This hairdo combined with the frilly dress is passable
• Grade 3: What is with the top? My bangs are iffy but overall this is fine
• Grade 4: Missing, thank goodness
• Grade 5: Side mini-ponytail with a scrunchy and a top featuring the world’s largest safety pins
• Grade 6: Another side min-ponytail … but I remember that vest and I thought it was awesome
• Grade 7: There is nothing to say except Wow
• Grade 8: My bangs are fierce but at least I’ve almost grown out the awful perm from grade 7

While I was digging through the Memory Box my parents recently gave me, I found all of my grade school report cards and copies of my standardized test results. I learned a few things about myself:

• My grades weren’t nearly as good as I remembered.
• I scored really well on standardized tests, which makes sense because I loved taking them.
• Based on my test scores, I should have done much better in school.
• A Catholic education might have been wasted on me.

The reason for that last point is my deplorable track record in religion classes. From second to eight grade (I went to public school for first grade), here are my grades in religion class:

In either grade I have a 6 by my grade. That indicates that I am not applying myself.

I still remember getting the D in the sixth grade. One of the primary ways my mom tried to get through to me wad “What would your grandma think?” Obviously, based on my grades, she would have thought I was a heathen.

My parents recently gave me a memory box that had been left behind at their house. A memory box, for me and my siblings, is just a cardboard box filled with artifacts of our youth. There is no order to the things in each box and you never know what you’ll find.

I had lots of piece of art and writing in my memory box, which makes sense. All throughout growing up I was encouraged to pursue creative endeavors. After reading some of my old assignments and essays, I’m thinking I should have been encouraged to be a little happier. Check out this morbid piece of writing from when I eight.

Transcript:

Hi. I’m Ronald the turkey. I’m six. My sister Jenny’s three. Oh no Mr. Baker is coming with a hatchet. He’s coming for me. I wish I could fly! Oh no! Slice!