A b e c e d a r i a n

Chalk and bells. Chalk and bells and rows of chairs. Computer labs. The compulsory wasting away. Mr. Ivie, who made it a point to carry two fresh unbroken pieces that looked like perfect candles. Mr Ivie, who taught us about white hankies and the Odyssey and the Iliad, whose hands always smelled flinty, who always wrote on the blackboard in bold absolutely symmetrical handwriting.

Mr. Ivie, who assigned our work, corrected and graded it like an officious butcher robbing any kid of all the curiosity he or she ever had for mythology. With his sternness and authority. He, who never laughed or permitted humor for fear it would threaten order, who always paced up and down the creaky wooden floors calling our names, asking us to recite.