A quick (and gently humorous) rebuke from The Evil Cub (there’s a link to his blog just off to the right there), got me thinking about why I hang onto some experiences, and then I started thinking about how I’ve only shared the really bad stuff from my school experience…and that’s not entirely fair.

     But there is a reason for it:  I like to be funny, and pain is funny.  It’s rude to make fun of other people’s pain, and so I mock my own.

     Genuine feelings of gratitude and warmth, however are not funny…so I have neglected them…so here’s a big thank-you to the best of the best teachers I encountered in public school:

Mrs. Schueling, my kindergarten teacher.  This was the best teacher ever.  She was a white-haired little old lady when she had me in class.  She made it clear that the girls were allowed to play with the toy power tools, even though many of the boys tried to discourage us.  She also said it was OK for girls to pretend to drive cars.  The Easter Bunny came during nap-time one day, and he hid eggs all over the room.  I remember that day.  She shouted “Oh My!  The Easter Bunny!”  And we all jumped up just in time to see his fluffy rear-end escape out the door.  We chased him outside…but he was GONE…like the magical creature he is…but he left his footprints behind.  Ever since then, I’ve had this unshakable feeling that somewhere, somehow…magic is real.

She was convinced that someday I would be a great artist, and she would always ask me if I was doing any art whenever she saw me.  She always seemed very disappointed when I said “no”.

I managed to visit her a couple of times in the intervening years, once with my best friend, who I met in that class.  When I heard that she passed a few years ago, I cried like I was six years old again.  I was able to attend her memorial service, and I am very grateful to her.  God, I’m crying right now.  I swear to you, I do not exaggerate when I say that the world became a darker place when she passed, and yet remains much lighter than it would have been had she not heard the call of teaching.

Mrs. Williams, third grade.  Cranky, garrulous, evidently missed the memo about how you’re not supposed to whack kids with the ruler anymore.  She swore that she would keep me after class for the rest of my life if that’s what it took to teach me to read.  Also, she swore she would make me do those penmanship exercises until I learned to write legibly, or until my arm fell off…in which case she would make me do them with the other arm.  I still get an icky feeling in my tummy when I think of her…but gosh darn it I can read my own writing and I would never have survived High School without the escapism of books.  Despite her best efforts, I never did learn phonics…but she gave me the repeated kick in the ass I needed to do what it took to make nearly every word in the English language a sight word.

Mr. Bowman, sixth grade.  Gave me a cool nickname.  Didn’t believe all that stuff about me being slow and low potential.  Took me out of the slow track, and put me in a special accelerated reading program.  Recommended to me my first science fiction book (A Wrinkle in Time) and my first fantasy book (The Hobbit).  Gave me just enough of a taste of my own potential to make me resent and struggle against the tide my academic career had taken.  That bit of confidence he showed in me sustained me through many disappointing encounters with High School Guidance councilors who were determined to keep me in my assigned place.

Mr. Aalgaard, tenth and twelfth grade Biology and Advanced Biology.  Told me I had a future in the sciences, and if I didn’t go into them it would be a waste of a gift.  Refused to accept my pleas of Math incompetence.  Kept me after class repeatedly scrubbing out those infernal fruit-fly bottles every time he caught me chewing gum in class and took the opportunity to tell me I had to go into the sciences.  Instilled in me a love for science, even if I didn’t go into it as a profession.

Mr. Galarnault, tenth grade World History.  Entertaining, funny, over-the-top…wacky…kept you on the razor edge of your seat and didn’t let you go until sometimes after the bell had rung.  Nobody slept in his lectures.  Everyone I’ve talked to twenty-two year later remembers them…the story of Harry, the first caveman with a thumb…the story of how Martin Luther decided to go into the priesthood rather than be a lawyer…the day he showed up in a toga to deliver Marc Antony’s speech…

People also remember how he always had time to talk to students about their personal problems, how he was kind, compassionate, and caring.  How he always had a smile and a hearty hello for every student who greeted him.  How he elevated every discussion he was involved in, and challenged every assumption you thought you had down rock-solid…and how he inspired even lackluster students to look stuff up just to argue with him.  Mostly, his former students remember being treated with respect, love and professional regard.

And I remember how he talked a certain sixteen-year-old out of dropping out of school, and told her that there were better things ahead…how whenever he showed up to proctor detention and found her there he acted surprised and disappointed… as though it never occurred to him to expect anything but the best from her…even if he was the one who had sent her there.

So there you have it folks.  The great teachers I remember with gratitude and, in most cases, love.