Shenandoah

Shenandoah Elementary School in 1946 -- from the Miami Area Schools, etc. website; copyright, Don Boyd.

The end of the year always brings up memories...well, I'm always reminiscing, aren't I?

Below is a piece I wrote to present to the Shenandoah Elementary School children for Career Day in May, 2004: forty-one years after my partner, Nicky Perusina, and I had skipped our way out into the courtyard as we danced a Hungarian Gypsy Dance; and just shy of forty years since I exited from underneath one of its stately arches for the last time as a rising fifth grader.

For what it's worth: in December of 2004, an artist friend of mine, Ana Canas de Lopez, was being presented with the key to the city of Miami for her artistic accomplishments. Awaiting the presentation in the reception hall, I noticed that Manny Diaz, the Mayor of Miami, was present. I'd read that he'd attended Shenandoah. I'd done the math: we'd been there at the same time. Therefore, I could not resist approaching him to find out if, indeed, he had been there. Indeed. It was not long before I touched on Mrs. Echevarria: it turned out he had been in the third grade (and in the same room) at the time! His memory, as mine, was of the day that Kennedy was shot. It didn't appear that we remembered each other, though: we "intermediate" fourth graders were probably all but tied to that table! Trust me: with Mrs. E in charge, we were. We were...

SHENANDOAH

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In the old days, walking down from Calle Ocho on Southwest Tenth Street Road, one was able to run smack into Shenandoah Elementary School. All three floors of it, with its Mediterranean tiled roof and graceful arches. The first floor held the first and second grade classrooms; the second, third and fourth grades; and the third, fifth and sixth grades.
Passing underneath these arches on November 29, 1960, I embarked upon my first grade experience in the United States. No hablaba ni una palabra de inglés. I didn’t speak one word of English. I remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Morvil, speaking to me in English. Looking up at her, quizzically, I responded en español. And that’s pretty much how it stayed, all year.
At the beginning, I wrote a few letters to my teacher in Cuba, asking her to send me my textbooks. And then I didn’t open my mouth, to the point that I almost failed first grade. I had learned enough to know that an “F” was a bad grade, and I had received six of them. I don’t know how – or why – but I was passed on to second grade.
The first six weeks of second grade were pretty bad. Then something happened. A small group of us were handed over to Mrs. Bustillo, a Cuban teacher who spoke enough English that she was able to teach us in both languages. I did much better with her, ending up the year with my lowest grade being a “C” in Physical Education. And, oh, how I hated P.E.!
Mr. Latona – “Latón de Basura” is what I called him – was very hard on me. I was already a little bit chubby, and had a very hard time keeping up with everybody else when we had to run laps around the huge schoolyard. Then, again, perhaps I couldn’t see in front of me. It was sometime between second and third grades that I became “Miss Four Eyes.” Did that help me with P.E.? No.
Huffing, puffing, and with sweat pouring down my forehead, in front of, and behind, my eyeglasses, I tried and tried. I cried and cried. I received many “D’s” in P.E. Fortunately, I did better and better in the other subjects.
Third grade meant the second floor. Room 201, which is where I would stay for both third and fourth grades. Our teacher was Puerto Rican. Mrs. Echevarria was fair, but very, very tough. I had to work very hard for my ABC’s. Evidently I misbehaved from time to time, for I received three checks in “Self-Control.” “Cafeteria manners must improve,” she wrote in her fifth period comments. What did I do – start food fights, or something?
On the other hand, I didn’t fight learning English, any more. I did really well: all “A’s” and “B’s.” Except for those pesky “D’s” and “C’s” in P.E. I became the spelling champion in our class, and runner-up in the entire third grade. I actually remember breathing out, “hand-ker-chief,” in spurts. But that did the job.
Third grade was my year of glory at Shenandoah: the Spelling Bee, and the Hungarian Gypsy Dance.
Two Hungarians were the obvious choices to lead this gypsy dance out from underneath the central arch, under the lights one May evening in 1963. Nicky Perusina and I were all dolled up in our red velvet and gold-trimmed jackets. He wore black pants, and a long black bow fringed with gold tassels. I wore a white skirt with red and green stitching, a flower-trimmed headdress, and carried a little bouquet of flowers in my hands. I even got to wear makeup – I felt so grown up!
Getting all dolled up was one thing. Dancing the dance was another. I’m not exactly sure who taught me the dance – I remember the hopping and the skipping to and fro – but I’m fairly certain Mr. Latona must have had something to do with it. This was his department, after all.
I DO remember being nervous, and trying to remember on what foot I was supposed to skip out, first. Most importantly, I remember telling myself, “Don’t trip. Don’t trip.”
Well, I didn’t trip. We all had a good time. And I became known as The Hungarian Dancer.
That summer, my parents and I moved several blocks away from El Vanta Koor (Vanta Court; now Shenandoah Square), the apartment building next door to Shenandoah, where we had lived since November of 1960. As Shenandoah was still my school, I entered the building on September 3, 1963, fully expecting to finally be in a “normal” classroom.
Instead, I was redirected back to Room 201! A group of us were to remain in our old classroom, at a table all to ourselves. We were in what was called an “Intermediate” fourth grade. Always a slow starter, I received the following comments on my report card at the end of the first period: “Georgina always starts ‘cold’, but warms up later to do good work.” That was the last time I ever got a “D” in P.E.
I was sitting at that table on November 22, when our principal, Miss Hatfield, made an announcement over the loudspeaker. President Kennedy had been shot and killed. We stood up, observed a moment of silence, and sang “God Bless America.”
The Beatles arrived in the United States in early 1964. Our friends who were boys became a little jealous. I took time out from listening to the record player and from playing with my Barbie dolls to get good grades, especially in English, Spelling, Writing, Social Studies, and Conversational Spanish. This time, I was class runner-up in spelling. If there was a May Festival that year, some other little girl was chosen to hop and skip away. But that was all right – I’d had my moment of glory.
My last day at Shenandoah was June 5, 1964. I’d been promoted to fifth grade.
We moved to Georgia that summer. But I arrived speaking, reading, and writing in English. Thank you, Shenandoah, for four wonderful years. I wish I had made it to your third floor.
Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 1020 words All Rights Reserved