The Sadie Green Story.
What are the repercussions of abuse? This podcast tells my story of childhood degradation and survival. Each episode features a conversation between me and my longtime friend, Pam Colby, and includes excerpts from a memoir that I wrote when I was younger. We share this in an attempt to understand how early trauma can affect a lifetime. Thank you for listening.
The Sadie Green Story.
E4. The Teacher and The Schoolhouse
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A clean green shoebox of sugar donuts sits on a teacher’s desk, and a hungry girl can’t stop staring. From that memory, we follow Sadie back to a one-room schoolhouse in rural Minnesota, sneaking in from the woods after the bell, wearing somebody else's clothes, and where a teacher saw everything. It begins with food and shame but unfolds into a wider portrait of community, power, a grandmother's courage, and others who try to help when help feels dangerous.
Decades pass, and then a hallway meeting becomes a reckoning: the teacher arrives with a cane and a perfect memory. She names the cruelty and refuses, even now, to soften the story to spare anyone's pride.
We honor the educators who see what others miss, who keep notes, and who stand their ground under community pressure.
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Special Thanks to our supporters, who have made this podcast possible.
- Lucy Mathews Heegaard: Audio Engineer
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- Polly Kellogg
- Kate Tillotson
- Dawn Charbonneau
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- Wendy Horowitz
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- People's Farm Collective
- Deborah Copperud of "Spock Talk" podcast
Welcome to our podcast, The Sadie Green Story about an adult looking back on an abusive childhood. This is a conversation between Sadie Green, who changed her name as an adult, in part to hide from a family she remains estranged from, and me, Pam Colby, her dear friend of many years. I'm a storyteller, filmmaker, and now a podcaster. Sadie, now in her 60s, looks back on that early life and tries to understand its repercussions. In addition to our conversations, Sadie will read from a manuscript of memories she documented in her 30s. Thank you for joining us.
Reading: The Donut At The Schoolhouse
SPEAKER_00Welcome back, everyone. I'd like to start this episode by reading a story about a day in grade school. And then I want to introduce someone who knew me when I was 11. At a time when I was living in a tunnel, I was totally focused on food and shelter. And I have little memory outside of trauma and basic survival. I went to a one-room schoolhouse from first through sixth grade. There was no kindergarten back then. The schoolhouse was about a half mile from my family's farm. And being a big family, three of my siblings were in school with me during those six years. There was a total of about twelve to fifteen kids probably in the school.
SPEAKER_01And what year was that, Sadie? That would have been the sixties. So one room schoolhouses were sort of a thing of the past, but w you were so far in rural Minnesota that it was still happening.
SPEAKER_00Yes, and it was a great education. I feel like I had a good education, even under the circumstances that I was living in. Let me read a short story about a day in school. Five or six families sent their kids to the one-room schoolhouse. Sue shared third grade with Tina Peterson and some years with Amy Knowlton until Amy's family moved away. Whereas Sue had her sister and two brothers in the school. Tina only had one sister. And Tina's folks were not farmers like Sue's folks. They lived out on the highway, and her father was a minister. Tina never visited the Laznich farmhouse, though she had to pass it twice a day. Occasionally, a kid's ma baked something special at home the night before, and sent it along to school the next morning for everyone to share. One day, Sue's ma sent homemade donuts. All day those fourteen fresh baked sugar donuts, one apiece for 13 kids, and one more for the teacher, sat nestled in the clean green shoebox on the corner of Mrs. Wheeler's desk. Sue knew the box was lined neatly with wax paper. Every time she dared to glance at it, she heard Ma tear the tautly held paper from the jagged edged roll, heard the sizzle of damp doughy circles hitting hot oil in the frying pot. Her cheeks watered inside her mouth as she remembered the rich oily smell wafting down the basement stairs the night before. She heard the donuts plop into the brown paper bag of granulated sugar, heard the vigorous shaking of the bag that coated the plump morsels while still warm. In her mind, Sue saw Ma as she had the night before, after she had left the basement, crouched among the line of trees across the yard from the kitchen window. She saw Ma standing in front of the kitchen stove, wearing a faded bib apron and holding a long fork in one hand. Loose strands of hair had slipped out from the rubber band that tried to hold it back. Ma's face was hot, flushed and sad looking as she stood staring toward the vat of oil. It affected Sue strangely to see Ma sad in introspective. What must she be thinking of if only Ma would let her help with chores and do things like a normal daughter? It was near the end of the school day, after sixth grade science, when Mrs. Wheeler passed out the donuts. She walked down the aisles, putting one on each desk with a white paper napkin. Shortly afterwards, Tina Peterson excused herself. She said she wished to go downstairs for a drink of water, please. When Tina came back up, Sue asked if she could do the same. She barely thought about what she was doing. First, she took a dipper of water from the drinking pail that sat on the drain board of a sink attached to one wall of the otherwise empty basement and absently poured the water down the drain. Next, she reached down inside the tall metal trash can, up to her elbow in damp brown paper towels, and sure enough, there it was, a perfectly good sugar donut wrapped neatly in the clean white napkin. Sue knew that it would be there. Because Sue was alone in that school basement and never got her share of sugar donuts at home, she didn't go back up to the classroom until she ate every crumb. She never said a word to Tina about it.
SPEAKER_01What occurs to me listening to this, I always think of you as the odd one out in your family. And yet when we hear this, it sounds like your family was somewhat of the odd ones out in the community, or at least to this minister's family. That's how I felt. Do you think your mother was aware that you guys were seen as different?
SPEAKER_00Yes. I think my parents really had an attitude about city people. They didn't think that city people knew how to live, how to survive.
SPEAKER_01So was Tina's family, given that her father was a minister, was that then considered city people?
Life Inside The One-Room School
SPEAKER_00At least in my head, it certainly had a bigger status. Farm kids when I was old enough to go into seventh grade, we took the bus into Brainerd. And farm kids were picked on. Even if others were not wealthy, there was an attitude about farm kids. There were city people that had cabins across the road, and my dad would do anything for them. He would pull them out of the ditch and he'd help anybody. But yes, there was definitely an attitude that city people thought they were better. Yes. Could you tell us more about your time in grade school? There were two teachers in those six years. One of them was named Mrs. Wheeler, and because we were the nearest family that had kids in the school, when there was a blizzard, she would occasionally stay at our house. It was rare, it didn't happen often. But I remember thinking she was almost friends with my mother. I was sent to school in my dad's overalls and his boots, but she also didn't do anything about it that I'm aware of.
SPEAKER_01Mrs. Wheeler was not gonna confront your mom about something like that.
SPEAKER_00She didn't, as far as I know. But then in the middle of fifth grade, another teacher came on the scene, and she was not someone who knew all the families.
SPEAKER_01So an outsider came to town. Yes. And I just want to say I've been to this little schoolhouse and it I it's not open anymore, it's a community center now. It's a town hall. Town hall. But it it is just uh exactly what you would imagine a one-room schoolhouse would be.
SPEAKER_00Set back off the road and there's w trees, woods around it. There was a pump house, we'd haul water in. There were big steps leading up to the front door.
SPEAKER_01And the way one room schoolhouses worked with the families were super had a lot of power. Because like your family had a lot of kids. So the parents were really the bosses of the one teacher who was there.
Grandma’s Intervention And Welfare
SPEAKER_00And it was a community center. The men would meet there for meetings at night, the moms would celebrate Mother's Day, there was a box social every year that raised money. There was a Christmas program was a big deal. It was very much a central part of my childhood. It was on a paved county road, and across the road, up a big hill, was where my grandmother lived. I will talk more about her later, but my grandmother was my savior.
SPEAKER_01Yes, she plays a big role in your story.
SPEAKER_00Yes, her brother gave her a ride into Brainerd to talk to welfare to say something is wrong at my son's house. So years after I was gone, and my grandmother was gone.
SPEAKER_01And this is a time period after you've written down these memories.
SPEAKER_00Yes, I'm actually in my early forties. I find my great uncle, her brother, in a nursing home. I'll never forget the day I met him. He told me he dreamed that one day I would be a millionaire and I would come back in a limousine. He was delighted to see me. He talked about how he thought they were going to find me in the lake one day, that everyone knew that I was mistreated.
SPEAKER_01Hold on, when they when he said to you that he thought they would find you in the lake, they mean that you would have been dead in the lake and He thought they might kill me.
SPEAKER_00He thought I might kill them. He thought I might kill myself. He listed all those things. He felt proud of taking my grandmother into town. He felt really proud that he had a part in my getting out of there. And he would often talk about this teacher. He would say, you know, she tried to talk to you and you wouldn't say a thing against your parents. The school teacher knew something was wrong. The school teacher met with grandma. The school teacher went into welfare also. So one day his daughter is visiting at the same time that I am, and we're in the cafeteria, and the daughter brings up the teacher. Comments about the teacher made little sense to me at first until I finally recalled a second teacher at the one room schoolhouse, not Mrs. Wheeler, Ma's almost friend, but a new teacher hired in the middle of my fifth grade year, who saw me every day in school, at least every day that I made it to school. My world had become so small by then, it was just so narrowly focused on survival. Sitting in the cafeteria that night, I could not remember what the second teacher looked like. I have only one clear memory of her. I'm standing at the bottom of the steps outside of the schoolhouse, eating a tomato like an apple, and misses Benaric, that was her name, stands above me watching. And I can't remember if she gave me the tomato or if I felt caught because I held it in my hand. It's not a bad memory, just the only one that came. I just have little recollection of that time in general. I was barely hanging on then.
SPEAKER_01That's interesting that she would be observing you eating because this is the time period where you didn't have food, correct?
The Missing Teacher In Memory
The Reunion: Teacher’s Testimony
SPEAKER_00Right, I would steal from gardens, I'd steal from the kitchen coming up through the basement at night. I would climb into my grandmother's basement and s yeah. After I had gone, Oli's daughter looked up the teacher's number in the phone book, and when the teacher answered, she said, Yes, of course I remember much about that child. And I've waited all these years to talk about this situation. But I didn't know that until later. You didn't know the daughter had called. Yeah. So I'm visiting another time, and I'm in Uncle Oli's room when his daughter comes in to tell me there is a visitor waiting at the front desk to see me. And I'm gonna actually read this from the manuscript. Apprehensively, I walk out of the room. What if this is a family member? I saw two silhouettes standing side by side at the far end of the hallway. Their shapes were slightly stooped. One leaned on a cane and the other held a wrath or sweater draped over one arm. Immediately I knew that it was Mrs. Vednaric. I caught the elbow of a cousin walking next to me and felt a rush of crying like a jump start in my stomach. I could barely walk upright the length of the long hallway as they stood waiting for me at the end. Tears filled down my face by the time I grasped her extended hand. It felt so good to hold her hand. I didn't know what to say after almost thirty years and under such different circumstances. But I didn't have to say a thing. She invited me to her house where I sat, half stunned, on a couch, across from her recliner in their tidy first-floor apartment. While she said everything. So reticent what she said of me back in sixth grade. You didn't want me to touch you. She went on without encouragement. Your grandma used to come down the hill to visit me. She didn't know what to do. She'd cry. Didn't understand how her son could let this happen. You never had a lunch. I didn't know where those clothes came from. Sleeping in the barn. Coats with nothing else. Dresses with nothing underneath. You'd slip in after school had started, from the woods, not dressed nearly warm enough. I called your mother to ask why you were late for school. And her response the first time was so blatantly cruel and accusing, I never marked you tardy again. I was on your side from then on. And I think you knew that, even if you wouldn't speak to me. I went to welfare many times. If I knew then what I know now, I would have fought for you in court. I should have done more. I couldn't believe a parent could be so cruel. She was so good at covering up. I just thought she was sick. But your father, I was so mad at your father. I'm still mad at your father. How could he let her act like this? How could he see his own daughter suffer? What she wouldn't do for those boys. They always had nice clothes, nice round cheeks. June always had nice clothes, always had good lunches. All you had were scraps you pulled together. Your mother once insisted that I change her scores because yours were higher than your sister's, and she didn't like that. I will not, I said, which made your mother furious. I used to stop into your place on my way to the schoolhouse in the morning. She didn't like that either. Thought I was checking up on things. I suppose I was. When your brother Ricky was in first grade, I couldn't get him to read. I tried and tried. I mentioned to your mother how difficult it was for us, and she said, Well, we hired you to teach him, and you better find a way to do it. And I did. We had a hard, hard winter, but we finally succeeded. I hear your brothers hang out at the Legion Club, playing cards. I know people who go there, and I tell them how those boys had a sister that was so abused. They seem surprised, but I tell them how I know. I see your sister in the flower shop. She knows what really happened, but pretends she doesn't. You're the one I remembered. You were bright against all odds. God gave you a gift, intelligence, to help you survive. That's why you're here. Why you're okay. Yes, I remember you. I lived in this area all my life. I saw one other situation like yours, the Culling family. Two girls beat by their mother, welts underneath torn dresses, but still, not as extreme as yours. Your mother was so good at covering up. She didn't like me. We had a truce, but there was always tension between us. Your father had no backbone, he acted scared of her. But I think he was a good person. Your grandma certainly was. I came to Echo School when you were in fifth grade. I left because my husband had to work in the Wisconsin mines in order to receive his pension. So I left you. Had I stayed, I would have done more. I always remembered, I always wondered about you. What happened to you? My response to her was halting. Words inadequate as I sought to thank her for the finest of all treasures, memory, her recollections that stood witness through the years. I thanked her for her kindness during a dark time. When I stooped so low, I could not see her, but was soothed and comforted, I'm sure, by her concern. I thanked her for the opportunity. For unlike with Grandma, I have the chance to thank her after all this time. Later, after goodbyes, I stood outside her door and bowed my head, a small gesture of homage to her 74 years of character and strength, and for what she did for me.
Validation, Power, And Limits
SPEAKER_01What was it like to get validated in that way? I mean, she just said everything that, you know, you had been remembering, and now you found somebody who could just say it and put it all out there.
SPEAKER_00Yeah, it was amazing. She was one of the strongest people to validate what happened because no one else really saw. And she was with me every day in school. So she actually saw a lot, probably.
SPEAKER_01And also it occurs to me that where your house was and where the school was and your grandma, that she was able to know that you were living in the woods and that you were, you know, not being in the house, not having food, the way she describes you coming in after school had started, and just the roadblock that was your mother. And it was a time when men had power over women and adults had power over children. And the school teacher, although a powerful person in a community, was, as we said before, at the behest of the parents. And you had a lot of brothers and sisters in that school.
SPEAKER_00Yeah. So within those six years, because I was third, you know, I went in with two siblings above me, and then I had several siblings behind me, so there was always I think three siblings.
SPEAKER_01So your mother could have really caused trouble for her if she would have But do you think she really did go to social services, the teacher? Yep, I do.
SPEAKER_00Wow. I believe her. And that is what got the whole thing rolling.
SPEAKER_01So when you read that back now, does it resonate in a new way, having not read it for a while?
SPEAKER_00I read it before I read it here, and it was very emotional, just because I hadn't for so long. And I remember walking down that hallway and somebody had my arm. That was the other thing. I had witnesses. So I I just remember walking down that hallway and seeing those two standing there, and I knew it was her. I didn't know what was coming, but I remember it was really emotional. And she's somebody who knew. She knew like nobody else. knew. That was truly a gift.
SPEAKER_01In some ways it's about secrets. It's like your family had this big secret. Here she is. Somebody who had an inside view on the secret.
Siblings, Secrets, And Starvation
SPEAKER_00You know, it's hard for me to read the stuff about siblings. Because again, my siblings did nothing wrong, and I do wonder how much did they really witness? They certainly witnessed enough.
SPEAKER_01They knew when I was put under the barrel, they knew when I was force fed milk, they knew they knew right, and this is another insight for me as a someone learning the story is that your brothers had food, your sister had food, they had big cheeks, they looked healthy, they had lunches, and you didn't Yeah, my family ate well.
SPEAKER_00I mean my dad did his own butchering, we had chickens. Many a time I'd see her chopping the head off chickens.
SPEAKER_01Starving you was a just abuse. It wasn't that they didn't have the food. I was just not good enough to sit at the table.
SPEAKER_00Or even to have the scraps put out to you. No, I remember once my mother put food in a dish on the floor, feeding me like a dog. And if company was around I could sit at the table. Another thing that was validating about the teacher is that was eleven this was clearly in deep by the time I was eleven. Yeah I d I don't remember a lot that was positive actually. I'm sure there was positive before you know I I really believe it got worse and worse over time. Right.
Gratitude And Dedication To Teachers
SPEAKER_01And so you did stay there until you were fourteen. Yeah. Now let's just dedicate this podcast to teachers. They're the ones seeing what's going on that's right.
SPEAKER_00What would we do with our teachers?
SPEAKER_01Thank you, Sadie.
SPEAKER_00Thank you, Pamela
