My friend Teddy, whom I've known since second grade, posted a tribute to teachers on Facebook, so tonight I had to rifle through the archives here at Meditative Meanderings and dig up my favorite posts on teachers.
Being a teacher myself, first at
University of San Diego, then at
Point Loma Nazarene University, and now to my own kids as a homeschooling mom (who literally ran crying from the house on Elizabeth's first day of kindergarten and begged my husband to let me go back to
PLNU and teach Chaucer again--now she's a Literature Major at PLNU, so I guess we did okay), I was inspired by all of my teachers from first grade onward. Now I teach writing to high schoolers at
Heritage Christian School's co-op Class Days (and medieval history this year, too--please don't ask why I volunteered for that one! It was a weak moment!), plus literary analysis, creative writing, poetry, grammar, Shakespeare, and the MLA research essay online at
Brave Writer (where I am currently up to my eyeballs in
The Merchant of Venice).
One of my very few reservations about home education is that my own life has
been so strongly influenced by many incredible, dedicated, impassioned teachers,
and I feel like I am depriving our children of that bond between teacher and
student that can change a student's life--that changed MY life.
From
Miss Beal in first grade--not a beautiful woman but one who was self-possessed,
unflappable, and unstintingly kind, to third grade with Miss Wells (later Mrs.
Reynolds) with her hip blond shag and her permission to play records from home
while we worked ("Puff the Magic Dragon" always brings memories of
multiplication tables and "Sunshine on My Shoulders" of discovering the true
delight of reading story after story after story), my elementary years were more
about teachers than students. I was painfully shy, often picked upon by
playground bullies. But I had a few friends to play hopscotch and jacks with--so
I managed to survive. I was bright but not bright enough to be moved to the
"smart class."
In fourth and fifth grades I discovered one of my
favorite teachers, Mr. Glen Paul. An avid outdoorsman who spent summers fishing
in Wyoming and Montana, Mr. Paul knew how to handle a class with aplomb and the
appearance of freedom, occasionally resorting to the dreaded boy-girl-boy-girl
seating arrangement when we took advantage of his kindness. I remember most
clearly coming in, sweaty and breathless from afternoon recess and dropping into
our seats, welcoming the coming quiet and peace of being read aloud to. With
overhead lights off, Mr. Paul would open a book and read us a chapter from
Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Harriet the Spy, or
The Great
Brain. While his pleasant tenor voice read, we all caught our breath and
often rested our heads on our arms, allowing the cool wood-grained formica of
our desks to soothe our overheated faces.
Fridays were the best days,
though. After math and reading, we were allowed to do art for the rest of the
day and to have the entire afternoon to play outside--an extended recess. And
just before we were let free for the weekend, we were allowed to rearrange our
desks into any configuration we liked. We all loved gentle Mr. Paul who took
such joy in science experiments, who brought in special art teachers for us, who
taught us how to draw in perspective, who was an environmentalist long before it
was "cool." During my 7th and 8th grade years, I came back to Mr. Paul's
classroom as a teacher's aid, walking across the wide asphalt playground between
the elementary and middle schools each day to grade spelling tests and math
worksheets, carefully recording the grades in his blue grade book.
In
eighth grade, I discovered one of my favorite teachers of all time: Millard
Stanforth who taught English and American History. He passed away two years ago
from Lou Gehrig's in his early 80's, and I was his only former student invited
to attend the celebration of his life. I wrote about him here:
Mr.
Stanforth. From Mr. Stan I learned a love of both the English language and
of American History--so much so that I wrote a research paper on The Battle of
Gettysburg that received a perfect grade. When I graduated as Valedictorian from
the middle school, Mr. Stan handed me my award at our graduation ceremony.
Then after I moved up to the high school across the street, I daily
walked across the dew-damped soccer fields of Kennedy Park to be a teacher's
assistant to Mr. Stan during 9th, 10th, and 11th grades. While at Granite Hills
High School, I met an incredible trio of English teachers: Roberta
(Bobbi) Jordan, Bea Jones, and Peter Sebastian. Mrs. Jordan was my freshman
English teacher, and with her we walked through many of the short stories I now
teach: "The Cask of Amontillado" by Poe, "The Most Dangerous Game" by Connell,
"The Necklace" by Maupassant--all of which I've taught in an online
Literary
Analysis Class at
Brave Writer.
Mrs. Jordan wanted me to move up to the honors English track, and when I
refused, she called my mother behind my back and wedged me into that AP class
against my will--and to my benefit.
Mrs. Jordan also taught an elective course in
Shakespeare that stands me in excellent stead as I teach
Shakespeare courses at
Brave
Writer each May, one class to families and one to high school students; I always loved how she would insist on taking the juiciest
parts for herself when we read the plays aloud in class--she was so passionate
about the Bard, even to having us draw names and handmaking a gift in honor of
Shakespeare's April 23rd birthday. From Mrs. Jones I learned to write a solid
essay, despite papers bleeding with red inked corrections--and also learned to
appreciate Dickens. And Mr. Sebastian taught me a passionate love of poetry as
he leaned back in his chair reciting Frost, T.S. Eliot, and Poe by heart. He
also taught me how to write poems, and my first verse was published in Granite
Hills' literary magazine
Reflections which I edited my senior year; my
poetry also appeared in our yearbook as well. Because of the influence of these
three passionate teachers, I knew I would also teach literature and
poetry...some day.
My engagement to Keith occurred at our high school's
senior prom, and I remember the concern in Mrs. Jordan's and Mrs. Jones' faces
when I flashed my ring; they were afraid I wouldn't attend college and "have a
life." But one can do both: I married Keith at the end of my freshman year at
Point Loma Nazarene University, and in the
Literature Department there I met my next group of incredible teachers: Art
Seamans, the Romantic; Jim DeSaegher, the consummate editor, and also outside of
the Literature Department I discovered kindred spirits in Dwayne Little in
American History and Sam Powell in religion and philosophy. My senior year
brought me another teacher, a mentor in fact, in Maxine Crain Walker, the
professor who gently kicked my butt into graduate school--an option I never
would have considered without her nudgings.
In graduate school at the
University of San Diego, I found a couple
more of those incredible teachers in Dr. Elizabeth Walsh, known affectionately
as Sister Betsy to all and sundry, a tiny nun who received her doctorate from
Harvard, and lesser influences in Joanne Dempsey (who passed away during our
Milton seminar) and in Irene Williams who taught me a whole new way to
write--exploratory, rather than academic, as a way to open us to fresh
perspectives. Sister Betsy employed me as her research assistant, and together
we worked on a project that was eventually published:
Light
of Learning: The Selected Essays of Morton W. Bloomfield.
And since
graduate school I have discovered other teachers and mentors: Sue Edwards in
developing my faith at
Lake
Murray Community Church, Judith Dupree and Kathryn Belsey in developing both
faith and poetry, and online friends in Julie, Carol, Eve, Susan, Beth, Tia,
Rachel, Carolyn, Lisa, Dalissa, Carrie, Sandy, Sandie, Suzy, Devin, and others
who have taught me more than I can ever express.
Teachers are
everywhere--in our childhood memories, in painful pubescent growth spurts, in
fond college days, in grad school stress, and in years of young motherhood, now
in the present, and, I pray, far into the future....
We only have to be
teachable....
