MY TEACHER FROM THE PAST

I was always a drifty kid, prone to flashes of intelligence, but I was really bad at finishing my work. At least, that's how I remember it and, honestly, I don't remember a lot. The names of classmates, even as recently as college, are lost to me, mostly because I've always been pretty introverted and didn't know how to interact with the world.

And the past isn't greatly important to me. (Sorry FaceBook aficianadoes who avidly look for elementary schoolmates whose names they remember.)

I've forgotten most of my classmates and all but a few teachers. I have great respect for the teaching profession, not because anyone in particular took an interest in me and guided me toward my eventual field of focus, but because I've come to see this as important, hard work--teaching.

I saw this most clearly as I witnessed the folks who guided my children's footsteps at various points in academia, particularly the early teachers--the ones who gave them a foundation and helped them learn personal responsibility for school work. My children are both better scholars than I ever thought to be and I attribute this to their early teachers. They've had some great (and no so great) teachers through high school and college. Some of which were very helpful and important and some of which stunk.

As do many of us, I have a teacher who impacted me negatively and who left me cringing. I was too much of a pansy to even cause this woman any trouble in class. Ironically, this was an English teacher and I've forgotten her name, not because of my classroom trauma, but just because I don't focus a lot on the past. At least not the details, like her name. I remember the incident in which my teacher humiliated me, though. I remember it this way probably because I was a wuss. I should have blown her off or given her classroom-hell, not groveled in my skin.

I think she was stupid in what she said--an English teacher--who when walking the aisle between the desks before class, chose to criticize scornfully my choice of reading material. Yep, I had a book lying on my desk. Not a piece of classic literature, but a frothy light read. She felt it necessary to criticize this in front of my classmates. She was openly scornful. Now, you might wonder at why an English teacher didn't fall to her knees at this evidence, thankful that a high school student was reading for pleasure, but no. This wasn't her response and, at this point, I pity her--yes, a little scornfully--but I think she really missed an opportunity and I feel sad for her.

I continue to read all kinds of things for pleasure, but she lost me in that moment. (I'll bet that I now have a better vocabulary than does she.)

Like I said, I have a great respect for teachers. They work harder than we know, they deal with kids who're irritating and with parents who make them want to pull their hair out. They see the neglected kids and confiscate random electronics from the entitled kids.

Not an easy profession--teaching--but an extremely important one.

Now, to my other remembered teacher. Again, I don't have a clue what his name is. "Mr. Something-Or-Other." But this guy had a profound effect on me. I was part of the great experiment in the early seventies--one of many students who went to a new school with an Open Classroom format. Now, don't think I'm advocating for closed classrooms and ankle monitors for students, but this Open Classroom format allowed my sixth grade self to easily sneak away from my class. Which I did on a regular basis.

I spent many an hour in the girls' rest room giggling and talking with friends.

Toward the end of the school year, however, I had a day of reckoning. My male teacher sat me down and told me that, if I didn't finish the work I'd been neglecting, I wouldn't move on to seventh grade. Now, mind you, my academic goal has always been to get out of school. I was smart enough to know that failing a grade wasn't going to help this.

What I really respected about this teacher who's name I don't remember is that he stated the situation simply and directly. He didn't yell at me, didn't say I was stupid, didn't threaten to call my parents--he just told me the consequences of my choices. Do the work and pass. Don't do the work and repeat sixth grade,

I finished the work and passed.

He did me a big favor, that teacher and I've thought of him many times. I wish I remembered his name, so I could thank him personally, but I don't. In many ways, I'm an idiot. So, I'm taking this opportunity to tell those of you who dedicate your lives doing something I'd never do--Thank You. Thank you, Mr. Name-I-Can't-Remember-Teacher.

Thank you for leveling with me. For talking to me like I had a brain and could use it.

You made a difference in my life, even if I can't remember your name. Good karma is being sent your way and has been all the way through my grad school degrees. I appreciate you. I just hope you feel appreciated.

You made a big difference in one kid's life. I hope yours is good.