Valley View. Home of the Fighting Vikings. I always wondered who we were fighting? There were no athletic titles to defend. (I don’t think “500” counted) Were we, as these Norse Barbarians, fighting for academic superiority? Or were we defending our awesomeness? Maybe.
As Vikings, we told ourselves we were fighting the likes of the Monterrey Jaguars. Or possibly the Pecos Ponies. School pride was everything. I know. I was there. And I got the t-shirt! (Seriously, I had the Valley View Vikings t-shirt. I think I still have it somewhere.)
Although, I didn’t end my grade school days at Valley View, I will always be a Viking! I will be a Viking because that’s where my memories are (from 1979 to early 1985). That’s where my friends are.
Pretty sure things are a lot different at Valley View today than they were back in 1980s. Pretty sure, there are no more atomic bomb drills. Pretty sure, there are no more gigantic wooden paddles (with holes in it) hanging in the principle's office. Pretty sure, there are no more 25 cent cartons of milk. Pretty sure, those were the best times, regardless.
Some flash memories through the years:
First Grade:
The year that thought me that life is sometimes short. I remember the day when we were told as a class that a classmate had been killed by a drunk driver as she sat on the curb in front of her house.
Second Grade:
Girls. (do I need to say more?)
Third Grade:
Becoming a Latch Key Kid. After missing the van to the Building Bears Learning Center (no relation to the stuffed toy company), I refused to go to the after school day care after that. My mother took a chance and gave me a key to our apartment at Columbia Manor. A new chapter of life began: learn phone code of one ring, hang up, two rings, and its safe to answer; no you can’t make tea without turning on a stove; and, run to turn off TV when the door bell rings so strangers think no one’s home alone.
Fourth Grade:
The Math and Science teacher tears up when I respect him enough to call him by his real name. All the kids called him Mr. Boring. (get it? Like he’s boring and shit). I clearly remember when my mother informed me his name is Mr. BOREM. I was so embarrassed by it that I never called him Boring again. Let’s say that an average C Math student got a B that year!
Fifth Grade:
Mr. Cannon would tell stories from World War Two or as he said it, “double-u double-u 2”. He told stories of how he had to “kill the Japs” and fought in the “jungles of Saipan.” He would regale us with stories of how his thumb got blown off by a “jap grenade” and he could now remove it and put it back (this was followed by a visual demonstration).
Sixth Grade:
The year that broke the streak. My home room teacher that the kids had nicknamed Ms. Whore hated me. Or at least judged me for being a trouble maker and I was nothing of the kind. For the record I was a good kid. Yet, like any boy, there were incidents of mischief. (It’s not my fault that she groped herself as she read the book, Summer of the Monkeys) My mother tried to get her to change her opinion and give me a break. That failed. In the end, I would be transferred to the “other” school. I still wish she hadn’t done it.
