Elsewhere, I've described my "First Grade Adventure" in Tulsa, OK, which climaxed with my scoring so high on 5 or 6 "standardized tests" that I was recognized for "skipping the second grade".But Mom wouldn't allow it, so I began a weird experimental "Second Grade Adventure".
Most Tulsa Elementary schools were built (in "the Greek style") as one-story linked rooms, with covered porch, around a graveled playground, with iron-fenced locked gates at either end.
At this time, Tulsa had adopted "The Platoon System", beginning in the Second Grade. It worked like junior and senior high schools, with a home-room and children changing classrooms at each bell. In the transition period, children ran along the porch, while teachers (like Border collies) herded the kids along or back from the playground.
One of my classes was in "Health", and this got me in trouble.
The first day, the cheery teacher opined, "Of course, none of you children drink coffee."
"I do", I oblidged.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on a canvas cot in the playground, in my underwear, drinking orange-juice, and being pitied as "a deprived child".
Somehow, the teachers couldn't prevent my classmates from inspecting me like a zoo animal, with "appropriate" comments. But the worse was yet to come. I tried to tell Mom and Dad about this, but they couldn't listen.
The next day, a "suit" appeared, ordered me to dress and follow him. I was driven downtown to another school.
The suit locked me, again in underwear, in a gymnasium with kids behaving strangely, some displaying their lack of toilet training.
I sat in a corner, cross-legged, crying into my arms.
But soon, the suit appeared with my clothes, ordered me to dress, and follow him.
I was driven back to my school, taken to my homeroom and told to stay with my desk.
Later, I learned that -- in spite of grades which "earned a recommendation for skipping" -- I had, by a beaurocatic error, been labeled as "mentally retarded" and temporarily warehoused in that gymn. My homeroom teacher had heard about the transfer, made telephone calls, and I was "reprieved"!
Reformed, I was a very gooooood boy -- for a week.
(I, Prototype John, tell you of this injustice, which must have happened thousands of times to children throughout the Land and over the decades!)