Share a story about your most influential teacher…
Patricia Polacco wrote a wonderful narrative about the teacher who had the most influence on her: Thank You, Mr. Falker. In the spirit of that wonderful picture book, I challenge all students and former students to write a narrative about their most influential teacher…as a “thank you.”
Now I am not saying I’m some type of Patricia Polacco, but I have been telling stories about the teacher who influenced me the most–Mr. Mike Borilla–for years. You can read my memoirs about him at my own website: http://www.corbettharrison.com/borilla.html
A narrative can be a paragraph, a page, picture book, or an novel! Great teachers leave us memories that are worthy of narratives of any size. If you have a narrative to share, simply type/paste your paragraph about him/her into the “leave a reply” box below. Describe how they inspired you, or tell a quick story about what a typical day/class was like with this teacher. Extra credit well be generously awarded to anyone who posts a picture of himself/herself–or of their influential teacher–when they post.
Once your short description has been approved by our moderator, it will be made public here at this webpage. Thank you for sharing with our community!
Mrs. Sanders was my second grade teacher in the year of 1967. She was a stern white haired woman housed in a soft build. I was a nervous child from a troubled home. Believing I was the only kid in the world with a terrible homelife of parents fighting and unpredictable outcomes were routine, I had a hard time getting into the groove of each learning day with Mrs. Sanders. We came from a small town in very Southern California, called Blythe. Everybody knew everybody in this dusty desert town.
For some reason, Mrs. Sanders could see I needed some extra support to get me focused on learning. When I was most dispondent in class, she would call me up to her old rugged golden oak desk and open the center drawer to bring out a small pill bottle. In this bottle were tiny red pills. She would say, “Now take one of these ‘pills’ and they will make everything better. I’d pop the little magic jewel into my mouth and it would dissolve slowly as it spread its sugary blanket of protection across my tongue. She’d touch me gently on the arm or shoulder and send my back to my seat with a smile.
Decades later, after teacher education and reflection on this event and aksing my mother, she never recalled sending medication to school. I now know these jewels to be a simple candy placebo sent by a teacher who cared enough to figure out how to make a tortured little girl a better student on the worst of days. Considering I never became a drug addict, I took the jesture as love for a student and I hope I can learn to meet my students needs just as Mrs. Sanders met mine, minus the dispensing of pills, of course.
The teacher that made the most difference in my life was my kindergarten teacher. When I went to kindergarten, it was only a half-day program and not even required. My mother found a teacher who taught kindergarten in the summer. I went to the half-day summer program just before I started 1st grade. This was in 1965 and I had never been away from my mother for any reason except to spend the night with my aunt. I vaguely remember going to this lady’s house for “kindergarten.”
Mostly it felt like fun but she did teach me the most important thing I’ve ever learned. She taught me how to read. Not to just read but the love of reading. Once I had learned to read the world was mine. I have never stopped reading. Today, I am a 5th grade teacher and I know it is all because of this one teacher. She so inspired me that I decided then and there, that I should also be a teacher. It took me a little longer than I expected and I did take a few detours along the way (just to make sure that I really wanted to be a teacher). It turns out that it was inevitable. The one most vivid memory that I have of that summer is that last day. After she had taught me how to read, she gave me the only present that would mean the most to me. She gave all her students a book. We got to pick the book by choosing a ribbon attached to a selection of books. It was magical.
I wish I could remember her name then again maybe it’s meant to be unknown because this is for all those wonderful teachers that teach the most important thing in the world, reading.
When I was in fourth grade I was lucky enough to live in the most interesting community for any ten year old on earth.
Medford Lakes, New Jersey was the largest log cabin community in the world and surrounded with history and folklore of the birth of the United States. Living between Atlantic City and Philadelphia and drawing from a rich history of the revolutionary war and the New Jersey Devil there were stories galore.
Nokomis Elementary School was also blessed with the most gifted teacher to walk the planet. Mr. Dudley! He had a piano in class,
he was a professional photographer, and he was the best entertainer you would ever know. Mr. Dudley took us everywhere. We visited the opera (Barber of Seville), the natural history museum (where he encouraged us to bring natural treasures to trade at the trading post, I came home with a real snake skin in exchange for a collection of large pine cones), we also toured Philadelphia including the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Going to these places with Mr. Dudley was magical, he told all the stories of the past as if he was really there. He loved being there so much that we loved being there!
Stepping into Mr. Dudley’s class was like stepping into a vaudeville show. He would play the piano and we would sing everything from “Mac the Knife” to “Three Little Fishes.” We also learned traditional revolutionary war songs and a variety of Mr. Dudley’s own creations. The musical mix I remember most is when we had to bring in a science experiment. I brought in an olive jar of oil and colored water. After my demonstration we sang “oil and water just don’t mix.”
In fourth grade I had set myself up to be picked on terribly. I would constantly over react to people calling me freckle face. I remember Mr. Dudley telling me one day in the lunch room that my freckles we nothing but sunshine kisses. He told me that my mom left me out in the sun with a wet face and the sun blessed me. I loved my freckles from that moment. Mr. Dudley used his photographer expertise and would take student’s pictures and display them in class. We made special projects with the pictures to give to our parents. When it came time to choose our pictures I chose the picture that showed the most freckles. Whenever I see that picture I think of how Mr. Dudley made us look at the world with new eyes.
Thank you Mr. Dudley- where ever you may be!
Mr. Stanley always played his guitar on Fridays after lunch. Always. Our fifth grade class would gather in a circle on the floor in front of him and he would strum his guitar and sing goofy songs about our lessons that week. He sang about the Dewey Decimal System and the solar system, fractions and freedom and reading and responsibility – it was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me at school! So the day that I came in from lunch and saw the guitar still in its case and Mr. Stanley perched behind his desk, I was livid.
What had we done to deserve this? Who had misbehaved and gotten our music taken away? Who had disrespected Mr. Stanley and made him so mad that he wouldn’t sing for us today?
I was going to kill that person.
After everyone had trickled in from recess and came to the same realization that I had, we quickly sat in our desks, folded our hands in front of us and assumed innocent faces. There had to be some way to get the guitar and singing and fun back.
Mr. Stanley slowly rose from behind his desk, his arm outstretched to the classroom. The brown eye clutched between his gnarled fingers stared balefully at us. We all sat in stunned silence. This might be as cool as the guitar.
I don’t think anyone was prepared for the shininess, the loneliness, the utter grossness of the eye. Two weeks of reading, studying diagrams and drawing our own illustrations had not prepared us for the dripping orb watching us now.
His gentle voice broke the silence as he walked between our desks, giving us a close-up look at the eye. After every student had seen it, he walked to the table at the front of the room and beckoned us forward.
The first slice into the juicy globe shocked me and made my lunch rocket around inside my stomach, but when he flayed the side open and I could see the diagram from the textbook and my own illustration lying on the table in front of me, I was hooked. The absence of the guitar didn’t matter anymore.
In one afternoon, Mr. Stanley had taken science from the flat, one-dimensional world where it usually lived and made it come alive. In that moment, I was certain that we were the coolest fifth grade class in the history of education and that I was the luckiest kid on the planet for getting to be a part of something so incredible.
It has been thirty years since that day in Mr. Stanley’s class, but I remember it like it was yesterday. As a teacher now, I appreciate the effort that he put forth to make learning as fun and memorable as possible whenever he could.
Lou Ann McCarthy
April 28, 2009
John Luster and Bob McMahon
“Darn it! He was right on my tail!” My blue VW Bug started slowing down as the hills became more steep. Suddenly, Mr. Luster passed me, waving and laughing as he went by. The race was on once again! Which one of us could make it from Auburn to Placerville before the other in our new Driver Education cars? We continued to play chicken, passing each other as the curves on Hwy. 49 became more and more tight, the incline becoming more and more steep. Each trip we made a different person won. This time Mr. Luster won, as my VW Bug didn’t have enough power to compete with his Ford Pinto.
John Luster, one of our Driver Education teachers, co-taught the program with Robert McMahon. At first glance, you might have thought that John was the more serious of the two, seeming to be more responsible and organized as compared to Bob. They both taught the classes, arranged for the cars to be brought to the high school, set up the simulator schedule, and were usually serious in front of the students when teaching class. Unless you knew John well, you would have thought that he had no fun in his life as compared to the “teacher clown” Bob.
Underneath it all, John was actually as much of a clown as Bob. “Watch this,” he would say, as he played practical jokes on the students including myself, blaming them on Bob instead of being caught himself. These jokes could be anything from changing the movie reel for that day’s movie to something completely different, to changing the simulator settings causing students to drive faster or crash while they practiced their driving in the trailer.
Bob, on the other hand, was laid back, watching the chaos continue realizing that he had caused a good amount of it. I remember him vividly, sitting in his chair with his leg crossed over the other, a large grin on his face, laughing and joking with both John and myself.
For four years I was their assistant, helping to teach the class, grading all of the student papers, making hundreds and thousands of copies, helping to pick up cars at the auto dealers, and running personal errands as well. While being around both John and Bob, I was accepted as an equal; in the inner circle of the workings of two of the best liked, funniest teachers I could ever have had the privilege of knowing. They always treated me with the utmost respect, and taught me more than just dealing with problem students, problem situations, and just life than anyone ever could.
My memories of these two teachers scatter over four years, hundreds of different situations and settings, and thousands of smiles, laughs and good times. I truly miss those fun filled, carefree days, and will remember both John and Bob, with great fondness, for as long as I live.
Mrs. Reeves: Teacher of Climate
By: Jill Bayliss
“Ce La Vie, Ce La Vie, that’s just the way life goes, that’s life sometimes.” All the students who had volunteered the night before sang as we stood in line waiting for Mrs. Reeves, our sixth grade teacher to open the door and let us begin our morning. The other students kept asking us why we were all singing the same stupid song. Unfortunately, those that were not able to stay after school and make tamales would never really know how cool Mrs. Reeves could be.
Mrs. Reeves was the epitome of cool. She had short choppy hair and dressed in the latest 80’s trends. She was famous for donning the tank top dress with leggings underneath and several different colored socks layered one on top of the other before finishing the ensemble off with a pair of bright white Reeboks. She listened to INXS on her walkman during our field trips and even drove a Porche! Those were the things that all of us knew about her; but, what those of us who made tamales for the sixth grade field trip knew, was that she knew how to unite a group of students from all different cliques into one cohesive whole.
You see, what happened that evening after school in the cafeteria was something that none of us would forget that year. It was a group of mismatched students. We all had different friends, none of us hung out together, and yet Mrs. Reeves, in her effortless way, brought us all together. When we were working in silent assembly line fashion she went off quietly to get her BOOM Box. She brought it in and turned on the most popular 6th grade radio station, KWNZ, with Wild Bill Cody. She started singing along to all of the most popular songs, and before you knew it, we had all joined in. She even broke us up into groups and had us all sing different parts of the song. It didn’t matter what we had in common when we came into the cafeteria, we had something in common when we left – a memory that would last the whole year through.
Mrs. Reeves was always doing activities to bring together our classroom. One of my favorite activities was “Glaser Circle” where we sat in a circle and shared student problems. Students were then asked to give each other advice to solve those problems. Once one brave student shared their situation, the rest of us would go around and offer advice. This whole process was supervised by the counselor and our teacher. I recall getting many compliments on my ability to help students resolve situations. This is something that has stayed with me for a lifetime. I remember noticing that the climate in our classroom shifted following those meetings. As a group we were more committed to each other, which led to more cooperation among us. There was a level of compassion for your fellow classmates that I had never experienced before.
It was through experiences like these that I knew I was cared about in Mrs. Reeves’ room. Now that I am a teacher, I try to cultivate that same sense of community within my classroom. I want all of my students to get to know me as a person, the way I knew Mrs. Reeves. It is through my personal connection with her that I thrived that year and it is through the personal connections with my students that I thrive today.
“Ingredients for Success”
One kindergarten graduation, one six grade completion, one G.E.D., one Bachelor’s Degree, and one just recently added Master’s Degree later, I’ve been asked to reflect upon the 23 years of my life that I’ve spent in school. And, wow! I’m one lucky school girl because I didn’t have just one favorite teacher, I had a wealth of teachers who all made me feel I existed, I was human, and I wasn’t just one out of thirty who sat in the same seat day in and day out.
3rd grade-Mr. Bayer. Every day after school he and I sat reviewing my math problems, relearning what I missed, checking my answers, and filling in the gaps that had just recently begin to tear through my confidence in the subject that haunted me for twenty years. Sitting right next me, talking me through each problem in that soft spoken, calm yet ensuring voice, he worked hours with me so that I could be successful. It was the first time I had experienced failure in school and what precipitated were twenty excruciating years failing and falling further behind. And yet, in all those years, he was the only teacher who took the time to meet with just me, to work with just me, and to help just me…in Math. Thank you Mr. Bayer!
4th grade-Mrs. Asou: I’m sure my incapacity to learn Math, hindered my ability to tell time on an analog clock. These were the days when you actually had to tell time on the good, old-fashioned analog clock with its one long hand and one short hand and I could never remember which one was the hour and which one was the minute. And then, the funny red hand that spun so quickly, and how was I supposed to know what all those tick marks were for? My mini horror movie began every time I was asked the dreadful question: “Jennifer, what time is it?” I had snuck by long enough and Mrs. Asou had caught me. It was time to tell time. Each day, while the other students were engaged in a busy task at hand, loud enough so no one would hear me, Mrs. Asou would call me over. For ten minutes we would practice telling time on the big, cardboard clock. Just her and I… moments in time telling time. I’ve been a time telling champion ever since! Thank you Mrs. Asou!
7th grade-Mr. Wong: Ooey, gooey, chewy, chocolaty earthworm brownies. The path to my extra credit lay in my willingness to indulge in these extra special treats. Mr. Wong, my seventh grade teacher, was constantly striving to find creative measures to engage his students. This was one of his many tricks. And how could I resist? I wanted the extra credit and how cool would I be if I ate one? I’m not sure I ever earned the “extra cool” status I was looking for, but Mr. Wong sure thought so. Walking up to the blender where the mashing took place, eyeing the seemingly innocent appearing brownies, I took a deep breath, a big bite, and a muffled swallow! I did it! Mr. Wong looked at me then, just him and I, and his smile was as large as mine! Thank you Mr. Wong!
11th grade-Mr. G: In typical high school fashion, I went to the extreme to get attention. On this particular day, like many others, clothing was my bait. Thigh high tights and short shorts were the fashion: I decided to pair them together. Extra high lace trimmed tights and extra small short shorts. A tank top to match and parading around school I went. As I crossed campus, I was spotted! Mr. G had made eye contact and straight towards me he walked. What followed was a sharp, direct, to the point lecture on what I was wearing and how unlady like it was. Standing there, him and I, getting exactly what I wanted: a response. But, this time I felt ashamed…I had let him down. Yet, shame was quickly replaced by a creeping sense of empowerment that has yet to be contained! Thank you Mr. G!
23 years and numerous moments in time later, I am grateful for the teachers I had that made me feel I existed, I was human, and I was NOT just one out of thirty who sat in the same seat day in and day out.
I was lucky. He wasn’t just my teacher, he was also my tennis coach, and in most respects, my mentor. Even today, I call him or email him with simple questions of good teaching, how to guide a wayward student back onto the path of academia, or how to deal with complexities of day-to-day life. And, he always does it with a story.
One of my first memories of him was in a large college lecture hall. The room was large with stark white walls. I was sitting near the front with a clear view of the green chalkboard, with my legs swinging back and forth, because they didn’t touch the floor. The auditorium was filled with students listening to his booming voice tell the story of how the world stopped on November 22, 1963. He was professor of the year, and his class was full. Students were furiously taking notes, yet were not afraid to ask questions. Although I sat silently, I would look at my scribbles and know they were meaningless compared to his words. I think this was the moment I fell in love with stories. He made a very complicated, scary moment so clear through the simple act of telling a story.
It should be no surprise to anyone who has ever met me that I was never the tallest of students and it bothered me a great deal for a very long time. I mentioned this once to him in passing and he asked me what I was going to do about it. I replied with frustration that I couldn’t do anything about it; it was just the way I am. He said, “Exactly! You can’t change it, so don’t worry about it. However, your strength of character should be the largest presence in any room you enter. If you can achieve this, your physical height will never be an issue.” As difficult as this task sounds, it is a thousand times more difficult to achieve. I can’t say that I’ve been perfect, but it is something to which I aspire. He does it daily, seemingly without effort; but I know from my own experiences, it requires a level of faith in myself that is so overwhelming; yet this ideal gives me the courage each day to stand up for what I know is right. This mind set allows me to live a life free from many of the stresses that might result from “convenient decisions” rather than the sometimes more difficult paths I chose.
I remember winning my first tennis tournament and jumping up and down with joy, until I saw him frowning at me. I danced across the court to ask him what the problem was, after all I did win! He said that part of sportsmanship is to lose with grace, but to also win with humility. My behavior did not reflect his philosophy and he would prefer if I would show some respect to my opponent and not gloat! Many years later, ever the historian, he wrote a book about the history of sports in America. He dedicated it to his three sports-loving granddaughters, with this explanation in his acknowledgments: May they learn the importance of competing hard within the rules, and understand that the inevitable setbacks they will encounter—in sports and beyond—must be a prelude to trying harder and preparing for the next challenge. His use of sports as a metaphor for life is never-ending. What he taught me on the tennis courts has carried into my daily life. Anyone who knows me, knows I’m relentless and don’t give up until the last point is played. I’m competitive, always with a drive to win; but only within the rules. Although, I have been known to make a few “close” line calls! And when I lose, count on me being right back in the game the next day ready to find a way to win.
Over the years, he’s been called Mr. Davies, Coach Davies, Professor Davies, Dr. Davies, Dean Davies, Vice President Davies, and for a short while, on a Colorado campus, President Davies. To a few special students, he is simply known as Doc; but, to me, he’s always been just Dad.
He turned from the counter after paying for his meal and to my surprise he knew who I was. His name was Fred Horlacher and he was the best teacher I ever had.
I never thought of being a teacher, until I sat in his 11th grade US history class. He found a way to make the boring jump from the pages of our textbook with activities. He was so passionate about the past and getting 16 year olds after lunch to care about it, which I’m sure wasn’t easy. Those who just couldn’t engage and fell asleep quickly learned not to do it again. For after falling asleep, his unsuspecting target would be unloaded upon with a hot pink squirt gun.
It is not so much that I remember exact conversations, but rather that he made leaning fun. I do remember fanning out all over town looking for the bright yellow trail markers of The Donner Party and I certainly remember the water balloon fight on the grass between the north and south during our version of the Civil War or the flag I made which I still have that flew on the lawn that day during battle. Or the pain staking paper, I wrote on the adventures I had on the Oregon Trail and how I lost my daughter on the journey.
He helped to make me the teacher I am today and instilled a love of the past, especially US history. That day standing in that Burger King restaurant, I was lucky enough to tell him what a difference he made in my life and the lives of my students. When I think about a lesson, I think what would Fred do? How would he have made this fun and engaging?
Within the spectrum of learning there are numerous elements that ensure student success. Initially, student learning begins at home with mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles and other family members. Learning is fluid, observed and participated in, not always memorized and studied. Real teachers are a part of our lives. Teachers who inspire possess the ability to connect with their students, give pieces of themselves’, learn from their students and guide them along the path of knowledge and change. Teachers who touch lives do not do so based on lessons with direct instruction or because they motivate their students to think at a higher level. Rather these teachers inspire because they touch every aspect of their student’s lives. Teachers who have influenced me are remembered by the feelings their memory evokes and the fact that they gave of themselves while leading me by example.
Sheila Meibergen was one of the first professors that connected with me on this level. Although, I cannot easily name the classes she taught at the University of Nevada, Reno, (UNR) I distinctly remember that she cared about me and my success. I was not struggling academically but personally as one of a few Native American students in the education program at UNR. Sheila shared with me that as a person of color she also had felt disconnected with other students in her educational experiences. These were not discussions that were held in a classroom but when I had the opportunities to meet with her outside of the classroom. She helped me gain the strength and courage to say out loud “I am Native American and I am going to focus on the education of Native American students.”
Another teacher who left a lasting impression on me is, Glenabah Martinez. She was the first woman, full blooded Native American professor that I had at the University of New Mexico. She quickly became aware that I was new to the city of Albuquerque with no friends or family besides my two children. When she found out I was struggling with daycare issues for our evening class she invited my children to accompany me to class and wait in the office outside of our meeting place. She understood that my education was important but that my children were more so. Though I admired her and learned much from her in the classroom it was her act of kindness that I (and my children) remember the most.
These teachers touched my life and left a lasting impression. By connecting on a personal level, they demonstrated that they genuinely cared about me as a student and were readily able to ensure my success. They influenced the way I teach, provided me an example of empathy toward my students and demonstrated the importance of my role as more than a classroom educator. The individuals who have inspired me through their caring have enabled me to be a better educator.
When I was in school I had very good relationships with all my teachers. Being self motivated, I was never the type of student who got extra attention from my teachers, in the form of encouragement, to keep going. I had some great teachers growing up, but no one was more inspirational than any other. My inspiration comes from 2 colleagues, who just happen to be teachers; and eventually became my best friends.
I was hired to be a sixth-grade teacher and began my first year six weeks after the school year began. At the beginning of the following year, it was decided that my class would be changed to a 5/6 split. I would be given 12 sixth- grade students and 12 fifth- grade students. Most of the students I was given were generally all around good kids. However, I was given some challenging students and those students outweighed the good ones and made teaching a very difficult challenge. The year continued to go from bad to worse. I wanted to quit. As much as I loved the job, it just wasn’t worth it. Two years in a row I had some challenging students that I wasn’t prepared for and I didn’t feel I was supported by my administrator or some of my fellow colleagues.
Jan Eakin and Pam Matherly-Larson were my co-teachers in the 5th grade. They made sure to ask me often how things were going. Each day I would tell them how tough this class was, the problems I was having and that I was considering a new profession; and each day they would tell me that things would get better, and not to let these challenging years ruin teaching for me forever. They would relate experiences they had had with challenging classes and examples of how they dealt with similar situations.
My class never did get along but we ended the year very happy to be moving on. Had it not been for Jan and Pam I might have quit teaching at the end of that year. It was their encouragement which inspired me to go on and not give up. They took the time to help me realize that sometimes challenging classes happen and that there would be more of them in my future. Thanks Jan and Pam, for your encouraging words and support. I owe you more than the friendship we have forged over the past ten years.
Donna Chaney
“Read! You want to read!! I can’t read all that.” These words I used throughout my school years and into young adulthood. Reading had always been a problem; I had not inspiration to read. I could read if you call word-calling reading. I often stumbled with pronunciations and give up long before a paragraph w as ended. By the age of 22 I had given up reading most thing especially if I didn’t have to. Reading a book completely was a chore so I did everything I could not to.
When a friend suggested I take a reading class with her the thought gave me chills, not of joy, but of terror. Not only as this reading class, but this was a college class. I would look like a fool; I didn’t want anyone to know my little secret… I was not able to read very well. I have to tell you my first night of this reading class at a local community college was a major turning point in my life.
The instructor, Mrs. King, was a large woman in her late 50’s. Her hair was salt and pepper with a more gray than black in it, she wore it in a long braid down her back. Her clothes were strikingly bright, bold colors, right out of the sixties; in fact I’m sure she had been a hippie. But when she spoke the world listened. She made everything seem simple if you only tried, anything could be accomplished. Even reading…
Over the next few months she worked patiently with me, teaching me skills and strategies to improve my fluency and remarkably my comprehension. The most important skill she worked with me on was, to build my confidence. She gave me a romance novel to read and told me I had to have it finished before the next class. Two hundred forty seven pages… I not only finished that book before class but I had started another one. I could hardly believe it.
I am an avid reader now and love to read to my students. I feel like I’ve been given the torch, love of reading. This wonderful woman passed on to me, now it’s my turn to pass in on to my students. So, thank you Mrs. King for giving me the opportunity to carry this torch and pass it on.
Inspiration is a funny word. The dictionary says it is a divine influence or actions on a person believed to qualify him to receive and communicate sacred revelations. I think they should add the name Mrs. King to that definition.
A Model of Equanimity – Mrs. Hackett – My Third Grade Teacher by Keith Rand
Before I was in 3rd grade, I was often in trouble at school because of my short temper. During an argument with a girl I had liked, I kicked her in the shin and got sent to Mr. Parodi’s office. The principal asked me, “What is your reason for kicking her?” I replied, matter-of-factly, “I was angry.” Mr. Parodi continued, “Well, yes, but what was the reason for that reason?” I simply glared. Why did I have to justify myself to someone who wasn’t going to hear me anyway!
Ever since I was a toddler, when kids picked on me, I always felt like I was misunderstood. It was, to me, as though some horrible injustice occurred. In the beginning, I felt helpless and just cried, but by the time I was in elementary school, I usually ended up getting into a fight. Some adults, like the principal of Mesa Robles elementary school, took the attitude that I should “man-up” and stop acting out every time another student hurled an insult at me, pushed me or hit me—which, it seemed, was all too frequent (there was no such thing as an anti-bullying movement then). Teachers seemed distant and unconcerned with the things that transpired outside of their classrooms. When they were on duty, I usually avoided them since I was either likely to get in trouble or have my complaint mishandled. For the first half of first grade I even had a teacher that had told my mom quite bluntly that she didn’t even like children. My parents were comforting when I went to them, but they seemed powerless to stop the petty injustices that were a daily reality in my school life, so I stopped bothering them with my troubles. By the second grade, I was firmly convinced that if I didn’t take on my detractors, no one else would!
One afternoon, I was having a problem with a particularly obnoxious boy, Robbie Orson, while waiting in line for the bus. It seemed that my last name was amusing to him and he had a way of pronouncing it and rhyming it with nonsense syllables that he knew I couldn’t stand. I’m not sure what I was about to do (and I was about to do something) when the duty teacher saw I was getting into a dispute and made me move to the end of the line. Surely, I thought, justice had been thwarted!
I was determined to set the record straight—to let this teacher know that she had misjudged me, that I was innocent and that Robbie was the instigator. I ran up to her and stomped my foot in indignation and let her have a piece of my eight-year-old mind. I yelled out my complaint, including some choice words, and in my second-grade-way accused her of being unfair and careless because she didn’t see what really happened. Now, I expected my parents would be called, I would tell them what happened and they would just comfort me until I got over it. But the duty teacher just stood there, looking at me obliquely and raising her eyebrows. The unexpected reaction took the wind out of my sails. I went back to the end of the bus line and sat down. I didn’t know what to think about her reaction, but oddly, I wasn’t angry anymore.
It was shortly before the start of the school year, at the beginning of third grade, when I found out Mrs. Hackett would be my third grade teacher. I wasn’t sure who that was until my mom explained that she was duty teacher I had cussed out at the bus line. My mom knew about that? I felt a tangle of conspiracy tighten around me. I could just imagine the telephone conversations and meetings that had gone on behind my back. My eagerness to return to school that had been cultivated by a summer of boredom was suddenly replaced by a breathless sense of apprehension. What was Mrs. Hackett going to do with me? Was I doomed to be watched like a troublemaker, forever misunderstood by all teachers from this day forward because of one incident, one misunderstanding?
Soon, I found myself sitting in Mrs. Hackett’s classroom. It was cool, calm and uncluttered. There were only the cabinets filled with paint and paper and the reading and math books piled on the counters and the double desk-tables with the front-loading compartments underneath and other familiar objects. The room provided no resistance to the intentions of the teacher. It was a vessel suitable for assimilating not only knowledge, but also character.
Mrs. Hackett was not what I expected. Her way of explaining things was clear. I never had trouble understanding her—she made sense to me. She had a gentle disposition and listened to my ideas, always encouraging me to try them out in a class project. We built a shelter in the classroom out of palm fronds once (I guess there were no fire regulations, then) and she let me put parts of it together when I had ideas about how to solve the problem of keeping it from falling over. I started going to school thinking about what I would get to do in Mrs. Hackett’s class instead of worrying about the next time I would get picked on. Optimism prevailed, my inner anger faded. I remember that I smiled all the time. On Valentines Day, I brought Mrs. Hackett a round cherry-flavored layer cake with cherry frosting that I had baked myself (from a mix, of course).
I was still picked on and I had my down days at school after that, but I never lost my optimism and respect for teachers—the ones who did what they did because they cared about kids like me. I cannot ever forget the way Mrs. Hackett conveyed her regard for me and gently redirected my energy from the destructive to the creative. I try to be like her when I teach my own students.
Warmth from Shade
By Marianne Kelly Smith-Nott
He no longer wanders the dimly lit, crowded halls. He no longer warmly greets new students with that genuine, gleaming-white, toothy smile…welcoming the lost to “come on in.” That same bright smile appeared in his sparkling, jet-black eyes…seeming to open the doors to the cold, shadowy hall…making anyone feel safe, wanted, and truly cared for as they enter their new surroundings at Traner Middle School, I remember that terrified feeling as I peered out the steamed up windows of the overcrowded, yellow school bus.
WE had all grown up together, attended the same school…even if we didn’t always have the same teachers. WE…the soon to be 6th graders from Sun Valley Elementary in the mid 70’s…all heard the gruesome stories about gang fights, drugs, having to “dress out” and shower for P.E. in front of others, and being assaulted in the hallway bathrooms without anyone knowing by “those black kids.“ WE were the “outsiders from Scum Valley” being bussed to the “Hood” where the “Crips” and the “Bloods” were prevalent. WE were the first group of 6th graders to venture into middle school…WE were the new kids on the block, taking that first timid step off of the noise-filled bus onto the silent and still black asphalt walkway that led up to those doors of doom.
Coach Shade was as “cool” as his name. You knew from the day he welcomed you in…that you could trust him with anything, be yourself, and share anything dark in your life. He stood up for you when others of color treated you badly and called you names just because you were white. I remember when I performed a sorry dance in a long dress for the talent show…I looked across the gym…no parents…just kids giggling a bit and pointing…but he smiled and clapped…even though I had no rhythm to dance to “Brick House.”
I look back, reminiscing about the comfort he gave, joking with him, laughing with him about being twins (we shared the same birthday, June 3rd…however he was black and I was white), crying on his shoulder when others were picking on me or when my “first love” dumped me just before the Sweetheart’s Valentine dance. Or what about just being a nerdy, awkward, GT kid with ADHD that alienated herself from just about every sport or new thing I tried?
Did I mention that he was NEVER my teacher in PE or any other class? He taught me so much about humor in life (especially when it seems like death to a preteen), what is important (those whose lives you touch), and what isn’t (what others think of you)…and acceptance. He helped me to accept myself during a very awkward time in my life, I was a late bloomer in all ways, my parents were divorcing, and I was leaving the comforts of my neighborhood to be bussed into a neighborhood that my parents had moved from to provide me a better education and life. Did I tell you that he now lives (and has for many years) in my neighborhood?
The best part is…my most recent memory…a way he touched my life, was to give me a gift that I once gave him. He had saved a poem/letter that I had written to him for our “last twin birthday” at the end of my 8th grade year. The paper had aged, yellowed with time…the ink not quite as vibrant as it once had been. He had saved it for all of years! I couldn’t believe it! He gave it to me for my 40th birthday in front of my dad, my husband, and my family.
I’m fortunate as I occasionally see him now…at least once a year, usually in the spring at Gepford Ballpark …walking around with that same gleaming-white, toothy smile, greeting every one of his former students, their aging parents, their children, and in some cases their grandchildren, as he did that very first day of school. “Wow…” I thought to my self…”I always thought it was just for me!”
Some of us are still lost—others still finding our way…his weathered yet still sparkling, jet-black eyes…making us feel safe, wanted, and truly cared for…still holding that door open toward our destiny. And…if I were to enter the halls of Traner Middle School as I once did so long ago, he would always be a permanent fixture to me.
I don’t know if I was the only one to receive an invitation to her house; maybe I don’t want to know. I remember that day so vividly. Mrs. Sanchez, my fourth grade teacher, stopped me in the hall and asked me if I had ever seen newborn bunnies. She continued to explain that it was spring and her rabbits were having babies. She described how the babies were hairless and pink. Pink? I just couldn’t imagine such a thing. I must have asked her a million questions. But, she just smiled and answered every single question. Suddenly, she asked one single question that shocked me. She asked if I wanted to visit the babies at her house. I could merely nod my head.
Mrs. Sanchez accompanied me home that day and asked my mom for permission to take me to her house the next afternoon. I was thrilled when my mom said yes. I didn’t sleep much that night and I fidgeted in class most of the day. I was anticipating what was to come that afternoon. During the day I couldn’t help but wonder why she had invited me.
I really couldn’t come up with a plausible reason for the invitation. I was just a normal everyday kid. I wasn’t the smart kid, the cute kid, or even the teacher’s pet. I gave up trying to figure it out and I was glad she invited me.
The time finally arrived and we were in her car on our way to her house to see the babies. She showed me around her house and introduced me to her son. He was really tall. Of course, I was only eight. I thought we’d finally go outside to see the bunnies, but she offered me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She knew that was my favorite snack. To be polite, I accepted. She said we could enjoy our snack outside in the garden. At last we were going outside. Finally! But, much to my dismay, I didn’t see any bunnies.
We did enjoy our snack in her beautiful garden. I remember feeling so grown-up, just sitting there having a girl to girl chat. Her garden smelled so good. There were lots of blooming flowers all around us. Once we were finished, she took me around to the side of her detached garage. The entire side of the garage wall was covered in little cages. She showed me a few older babies and I held a couple. The bunnies were so soft. Then, she took me over to a separate set of cages. She let me look in, but cautioned me not to touch the babies and not to make loud noises. She said the mommies would eat their babies if they got upset. I couldn’t imagine anything grosser than that. It made no sense to me.
Long before I was ready, it was time to go home. When she saw my disappointment, she said we could visit again sometime. On the way home, I remember thinking that there must be something special about me because she didn’t invite just anyone. Teachers don’t normally take students home. To this day, I still don’t know why she took me home. I just know that she touched a little girl in a very special way that she will never forget. Due to that experience, I have more confidence about my place in the world.
It is the example that Mrs. Sanchez demonstrated that I remember most. She wore the most welcoming smile. The smile is the strongest memory I have of her. She also possessed tremendous patience; I remember asking her question after question. It amazed me that she never seemed to tire of the inquisition. It didn’t matter the subject; she would answer every question. Most of all, she took time to learn about the child, the student.
This is what I try to take with me to school everyday. I make every effort to show the students that I believe in them and in their abilities to accomplish what they think they cannot. Often, it only takes a few kind, personal words to make a difference. I pray everyday that I am successful at building confidence in students. It is important to me to see the whole student and not just the academic student. One student, Luis, gave me a glimpse of hope that I may have been successful. He will never know how much that little glimpse means to me. I will remember Mrs. Sanchez and Luis for all time. Mrs. Sanchez showed me how to care and build confidence and Luis showed that I can accomplish it.
Thank You, Mr. Foyle, For “Seeing” Me in the Crowd
By Lisa Smith
I do not know if Mr. Foyle had ever personally moved from a small school to a large one during his formative years but he seemed to know exactly what I needed in order to feel safe because here I was, a shy little country bumpkin, in a new extremely overwhelming school situation. I didn’t realize it at the time how his small acts of genuine concern would be remembered in such a sensitive way in my heart because I see him now as a teacher who sincerely “saw” me and truly cared about who I was.
My father’s employment made it necessary for our family (mom, dad, me and three brothers) to move from our farm in southeastern Idaho to the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix, Arizona the summer between my fifth and sixth grade years. The school we had attended in Idaho was a quaint K-12 school with a total student body of under three hundred where we had one class per grade level, senior graduating classes or around twenty students, and where I knew everyone in the building – children and adults. Contrast that very comfortable environment with a new school setting where I found myself at a K-8 school where the sixth grade alone had four or five classes and where my brother’s new high school had almost four times the number of students our entire school had previously had. Culture shock! Oh my – there just aren’t the words to describe it and I discovered a shy side to myself I hadn’t previously known existed.
Sixth graders rotated for every subject which was a foreign practice to me. My desk was usually on the far right side of Mr. Foyle’s sixth grade English classroom, close to the wall and about half way back in the row of desks. Mr. Foyle was extremely tall and had bodily and facial features that amazingly resembled Abraham Lincoln. When he spoke, it was as a gentleman – deliberate, firm and regal yet extremely comforting and reassuring. I don’t remember him having to get after students very often. He showed students a great deal of respect and because of that, along with the fact that his very stature commanded ones attention, students seemed to reciprocate a dignified type of respect toward him.
I can visualize him pausing at my desk while handing back assignments, bending his tall frame down slightly to be able to look me in the eyes to say on various occasions things like: “This was the best work of the class, Lisa”, “Very beautiful handwriting, Lisa”, “Great job, Lisa”. He made a point of verbally making me aware of his admiration for my efforts and seemed to go out of his way to build me up in personal, quiet ways and of course, I worked extra hard so as not to ever disappoint him. Such small and simple gestures yet when I think of my time at that school, his face, that room is what comes to my mind first.
I know I quickly thanked Mr. Foyle on the last day of school that year but I never saw him again because we moved to another location that summer. I would surely love to let him know how much his kindness and genuine concern has meant to me over the past forty years. It’s amazing to think it’s been that long since sixth grade because so many of those memories are just like they happened yesterday. Mr. Foyle helped me weather a very difficult transition period in my childhood and I will forever be thankful. If I could, it would be nice to look him in the eyes and tell him thank you for “seeing” me when I felt like such a lost little fish in that very large ocean of a school.
Jeesh, she was nuts! Western Traditions was my first class back into the swing of college and I got the nutty professor for a semester. Dr. Giddings hurled ideas at us, she weaved in and out of cramped college desks flapping her wings at the grand ideas of the universe, and she asked us, “Why?” for heaven’s sake.
I plugged along and loved brimming over with intellectual knowledge that is usually reserved for lunch at the square in San Francisco. The first writing assignment was a response to Gilgamesh. I wrote insightfully and offered new ideas to contemplate. I turned in my paper sure I belonged in higher level education.
Red loops, red slashes, red question marks, red running all throughout my paper as she handed it back to me. Dr. Giddings didn’t even give me a grade. She wrote, ‘See me after class.’ in red. I stumbled back to my seat and told my Dad, who had just gotten his paper back, “I’m not cut out for college. I don’t belong here.”
I met with Dr. Giddings and she gave me the usual advice, go to the writing center, get a tutor, look for a book on MLA writing…etc. I teetered, and then finally asked if she would have time to meet with me to explain her expectations. We met at Starbucks on a Saturday afternoon and Dr. Giddings inspired me to learn everything and more.
My final paper came back scribbled on in red.
Temoca, after I pull myself together I must tell you honestly, this is a catharsis. In all my years of teaching I can tell you, you have a gift for writing. Write a book. Help others. Never stop learning.
Thank you, Dr. Janet Giddings. You have inspired me. And I don’t know how you did it, but you spoke my dreams out loud. I can only hope I will one day do as much for someone else.
~Temoca Dixon
Ah, yes, the high school years. It was the early 1980’s in Las Vegas and I was a junior in high school. Some of the good times during the four years involved being a self acknowledged homely kid. I enjoyed hanging out with my homely friend, Tina. We thought we were hilarious and an overall asset to the school environment. The dreadful times included giving oral presentations. I was one of the kids that felt queasy and tasted sour bile in my mouth even thinking about everyone’s attention focused on me.
Fortunately, I had a wonderful teacher to guide me through just such an ordeal. Her name was Ms. Profraser. She taught English Literature to the juniors at my school. We can all list the kooky English teachers we’ve experienced, but Ms. Profraser was different. She was thoughtful and deliberate in her instruction. The homely girls got just as much attention as the comely girls. She made difficult concepts easy to grasp. I rarely spoke to my teachers, but I felt I could talk to Ms. Profraser.
During the year, Ms. Profraser assigned us a project that had to be presented to the class. I can’t remember exactly what the project was, but I do recall thinking I’d never be able to speak in coherent sentences in front of the whole class! When the day finally arrived, I stood in front of the class, my face burning with embarrassment as my peers strained to hear my barely audible voice. I desperately searched the class for comfort. My eyes found Ms. Profraser’s. My racing heart slowly calmed as I recognized from her eyes that she had confidence in me. My trembling voice evened out, and I was able to complete my presentation without expiring from fear.
Who knows what grade I earned; the memory that endures is that I was rescued by the confidence Ms. Profraser had in me. It was powerful. Ms. Profraser, thanks for helping this former homely girl succeed!
We have many “favorite” things in life. Some things we get rid of as our favorites and others are quick to grasp, but the true one thing in life that anyone will always remember is their “favorite” teacher. My favorite teacher is a person who gave me a purpose for doing what I do best. This person is someone who believed in me, perhaps more than I believed in myself. I met my favorite teacher in my own years of being a teacher and in everything I do I remember her. My favorite teacher is Dr. McIntosh.
Dr. McIntosh is my favorite teacher because she is quite refined in her teaching methods in preparing a career portfolio. I first met with Dr. McIntosh when I was attending a special project workshop in December 2001, a course offered by the University of Nevada, Reno. The class was offered on a compressed video feed to parts of rural Nevada, and focused on developing an extensive teaching portfolio. That one visit with her made me remember her for days on.
Dr. McIntosh is an amazing teacher because of her individual interactions with students and her sincere, genuine interest in her student’s work. She would often give multiple opportunities to her students and would even say, “I’m home on weekend, you can drop your assignment off at my home.” She’s encouraging and motivating, and has a variety of different teaching methods. That is something I respect and see in myself.
Dr. McIntosh is a master teacher. Her instructional skills are at the master level and her direction and procedures are clear to students. In my opinion, she has become an iconic figure at the University of Nevada, Reno. Dr. McIntosh is a perfect role model and establishes a high standard of education in her class. She is an enthusiastic teacher with much wisdom.
I would like to thank Dr. McIntosh for the wonderful experience she provided to me in her class. She instilled confidence within me that has encouraged me to be successful. I will never forget when she told me, “You are an amazing teacher and an asset to Washoe County School District.” Her impact on me was crucial in guiding me to become a positive role model, striving for excellence in my own classroom.
Durdana Qureshi
My favorite teacher was unlike any other teacher that I have encountered. She was someone every adolescent student feared. She’s a teacher that my friends and I still talk about. As I think of her, my thoughts take me back to Saint Phillip Neri Elementary School in Alameda, California. My world in 1970 was structured and full of discipline. My hometown was a conservative island with a huge military presence. Vietnam was raging, as were the riots in Berkeley. The tumultuous times helped many Catholic families embrace the strict expectations established in my parish school where Sister Teresa Ann was our steady leader. The authoritative presence of Sister Teresa Anne (T.A., i.e., Tough A..) was unmistakable. She was Mother Superior, the Principal, and my 8th grade teacher.
The high school math placement exam was coming and we practiced for two weeks, two hours a day – even one Saturday. The drill and kill routine dazed the class. T.A. was displeased about the class “checking out.” From of her pursed lips she barked, “Heads up, eyes forward, feet flat on the floor, backs straight, NOW!” I wished for the sound of the scratching chalkboard to keep me awake as she wrote simple algebra problems over and over again. As we continued to work, her full black habit slowly drifted down the aisle; her icy blue eyes pierced her prey for the slightest of infractions. No one dared slouch, sigh, or tap their foot. Her pale whitish pink skin turned red as she honed down on a nervous pupil. Michael squirmed often on this day. Finally, under pressure, he lost his composure.
Michael will be remembered forever as the kid that was denied the bathroom pass. He kept holding up his forefinger but he got the look; he knew, we all knew, when we all learned algebra, he could then take care of his business. An hour went by, then two. A dark yellow stream started at Michael’s desk, flowed under Patty’s, then crossed the aisle breaking off into tributary branches, a big one running toward my desk. Raising my feet, I let the mighty Mississippi move freely without ruining my freshly buffed white leather oxfords. As T.A. saw the chain effect of kids raising their feet and making eyes at the rising water table, her face went beet red as she screamed, “You are never to discuss this matter outside of this room!” Micheal struggled to stand in front of 50 of us; his empty dark eyes were focused on the beige floor tiles. With soaked gray pants hanging low on his waist, our eyes looked down at his black squeaky shoes as they moved slowly out the back door.
As a class, Michael’s embarrassment was our embarrassment. Anyone of us could have been in his place. From that point on, we did everything possible to avoid the marathon math lessons with T.A. We did our homework and we formed study groups after school. In turn, T.A. did allow “comfort breaks.” No one ever abused the privilege. She did eventually show us her kinder side. The school year ended and most of us did an exceptional job on the H.S. math entrance exam. Sister Teresa Ann’s military style persistence gave me the tools I needed to succeed. I was able to do math well. More important, was the faith I gained in myself. In 8th grade, Sr. Teresa Ann gifted me with confidence and self-discipline. It has been a gift of a lifetime! Thank you, Sister!
Katherine (Hagan) Hoffman
Class of 71’
WOW…THANK you for sharing this with me, Dena & Corbett…and to read Durdana’s comments…it gives me goosebumps and makes me pretty emotional. I remember her of course, and I remember her daughter, also. I was fortunate enough to get to teach both women. I hope they read this and know that I appreciate them, too.
Meggn
I’ve discovered these wonderful responses as a result of FaceBook. I’d also like to add some positive words for my most excellent teacher. While I had good teachers during my youth, an understanding of excellence was not divinely experienced until adulthood when I was already identified as a teacher myself.
Durdana Qureshi has eloquently described a woman who has been my best teacher also. Durdana has written my experience with my teacher when she states, “This person is someone who believed in me, perhaps more than I believed in myself.” This is one of her gifts, to see the strengths others have inside and then have the discernment and courage to tell that individual. She truly cares about her students and encourages you when you are willing to take steps to reach forward.
So, thank you, Dr. Meggin McIntosh, for your willingness to teach excellence. I imagine many others have greatly benefited from your desire for excellence. And, many others I see you influencing in the future.
Throughout my school career, I was fortunate enough to have my share of great teachers but it was Mr. Knight who made the most impact on who I am today.
I had always been an average student, a student who did the minimum amount of work just to slide by with average grades. One day in particular stands out in my mind. As I sat in one of my high school classes, bored to tears, a group of “gifted” students passed by the window on their way to a school enrichment outing. I remember thinking to myself, “.gifted kids receive all the extras to enrich their education, special education students receive extra one-on-one support to make sure they succeed, but what about kids like me, the ‘kids in the middle’? Why don’t we get something to make our school more meaningful and interesting?”..
Lucky for me, I met Mr. Knight. Mr. Knight was the first teacher to push me and set high expectations for all of his students. I thrived in his class. He presented material that was thought provoking and interesting- something for which I’d hungered year after year. He was strict but he knew me as an individual. I knew he cared enough for me to get me to think about things and to push me past my comfort zone. He helped me to consider myself as intelligent and worthy of my thoughts. I had a true awakening as a student- I wasn’t average as I had always considered myself all of those years. During college, I was on the Dean’s List and went on to obtain my master’s degree in education.
Today, I’m an educator and in my classroom, I teach to a wide range of abilities. But because of Mr. Knight, I set high expectations for all of my students in a positive environment. All of my students, whether they be on the lower end or higher end of the ability range, receive a stimulating educational experience. But most important, I also recognize that the “kids in the middle” want and hunger for that kind of learning as well.
It has been over 20 years since I saw Mr. Knight yet his influence has carried on throughout my 14 years as a classroom educator day after day.