Hometown of my Heart: Homage to Miss Bishop

In this year of the pandemic, our younger generations will miss the opportunity to attend school in the ways we took for granted—reporting to homeroom every morning, a classroom for each subject, cafeteria lunch breaks, assemblies, interscholastic sports, debate tournaments, proms, field trips, so much more.

In my junior high days in the 1950s, we complained about the red romper suits required for gym. Miss Bishop, the girls’ Phys Ed teacher, set down the rules—bring them home to wash and iron every two weeks—whether you thought you needed to or not.

We lined up on alternate Mondays as Miss Bishop conducted her strict inspection. We were sure to stand with our heads held high and our shoulders set back—slouching prohibited. She had us raise our arms to detect an odor from any unwashed suit. We secretly called her the drill sergeant. She would have been flattered to hear that, I imagine.

Miss Bishop was tall and pretty. She tied up her shiny jet black hair into a pony tail, and required all girls with long hair to do the same.

My mom had my hair lopped off going into eighth grade into a style she deemed appropriate for my Bat Mitzvah. I secretly wished to be one of those girls with hair swept back instead of short and curly with silly bangs. My confidence was shaken by my dorky appearance for the entire year. I could not wait to become my own woman, the fabulous grownup that Miss Bishop represented to me.

Actually, I secretly wished that I was Miss Bishop herself. I imagined she could slam a softball or tetherball into oblivion just like that fifteen year old girl who showed off on the playground across from my house.

I scrutinized her carefully. She had freckles on her light, bright skin. She wore a white sleeveless jersey top with a V-collar and short black culottes that matched her hair. And always a silver whistle hanging around her neck. She blew it often—to line us up, begin or end class, take positions on the court, quiet us down, rev us up.That silver whistle seemed to have a personality of its own.

I tried to figure out her age. Was she in her early twenties, a new teachers’ college graduate? Probably not, as she seemed too savvy about so many sports and so confident in meting out discipline. I concluded that she was closer to thirty, a simple but impressive number. I couldn’t figure her out—although I tried to, for the whole year. She didn’t reveal even one clue about her private life. The firewall between students and teachers was high in those years, with no means to investigate.

I wasn’t a jock, but I didn’t really mind gym class either. I enjoyed working on gymnastics apparatus like the pommel horse and parallel bars. My forte was academic pursuit and for that reason I did not see a way in to relate to Miss Bishop, other than to comply with inspections and show up without excuses.

She looked like a goddess to me, fleet of foot, strong of build, wielding the whistle like a mythological Siren luring sailors to crash into the rocks. Being a study nerd, I wished for the bodily strength and power, the skills and confidence, that she possessed and that I most definitely did not.

In the spring, we enjoyed a reprieve from washing and ironing our gym suits for six weeks of co-ed social and square dance lessons. We wore flared skirts with our sneakers. The girls loved it, angling to get lined up with their crush. I hoped for Jeffrey, Seth, or Michael. The boys hated it, they would rather be on the football field—or anywhere else—to avoid learning the fox trot or navigating do-si-do’s with the eighth grade girls.

Miss Bishop was a different species from the academic faculty. In charge of interscholastic competitions and the largest classroom of all, the gymnasium, she represented on her own the entire girls’ Phys Ed program. I only had her for one year and then went on to the high school, an older building with second-rate facilities and tired equipment in the girls’ gym. I can’t imagine that she would have put up with that. I’d like to think she’d blow her silver whistle at a high school faculty meeting and yell out, “Everyone, get into line and start moving your butts, we’re fixing this problem, now!”

I took up archery as a personal pursuit later on and became skilled enough to get hired during college as an instructor at a summer overnight camp. My arms strengthened and my aim became true after just a few months of target practice. I did have some athletic ability after all. Miss Bishop would have been surprised that quiet Miss Weiner took on a sports challenge and taught a class—it surprised me too.

By then, I had forgotten about junior high, even high school and Miss Bishop, as I moved through liberal arts college, a stormy romantic relationship, then two years of bumpy transition from New Jersey to New England, the place where my life would finally move forward into a promising future.

We know that teachers appreciate hearing from students years later. My mother received cards and letters of gratitude after retiring from her elementary school career, and she saved them all. It never occurred to me to try to contact Miss Bishop—after all, she was not one of those teachers who read my book reports or who I needed for a college recommendation.

She was a different species from a different world and looked the part, the world of team spirit, action, competition, glory, fervor and physical excellence  . . . an Olympian of sorts, hiding out for a time in Myles J. McManus Junior High in Linden, New Jersey, blowing on that whistle like the school was on fire!