“My Kids” — All 800+ of Them!
On more than one occasion, I’ve written about the teachers who I remember and who (maybe, probably, certainly) influenced my life. I wonder if they knew. I hope so. Perhaps even more than that, I wonder what impact I might have had on them.
That’s no doubt a retired teacher’s thought. In the 39 years I spent in the classroom – 16 in California (1962-1978) and 23 here on the Long Beach Peninsula (1978 2001) – kids influenced and shaped my life in so many ways. I doubt if that ever occurred to them.
From their point of view, I was Mrs. LaRue and, later, Mrs. Stevens. They knew me to be strict and fair and demanding – or so some have told me in later years. They loved the stories I read to them and the social studies projects we did and the field trips we took. And, of course, so did I.
But what I remember best and am most grateful for are all the ways they caused me to grow and learn and become better than I could have been without them. There were the kids with so much courage – dealing with a dread disease or with the loss of a parent or a sibling. There were kids who persevered against every possible learning disability to finally “get it” with a shout of exultation or a quiet smile of satisfaction.
There were kids who were so gifted and talented that they made my head spin, yet they were patient with me and the others who struggled to find proper challenges for them. There were the naughty kids who always managed to find a special place in my heart. And there were the kids who knew just how to push my buttons and, often as not, there were other kids who were so socially astute and dependable they could diffuse any situation, even as my own patience was unravelling,
Mostly these were first, second, and third graders. Six, seven and eight year olds! Many times I taught the same kids for three years in a row. We knew each other inside and out – you know, for better and for worse. Then they moved on. I grew older; they grew up. The girls married and changed their names. The boys got their man-faces and man-voices and I no longer recognized them. Some are still in touch, but most I’ve lost track of and vice-versa.
Would we still recognize each other? I don’t know. But I will never forget the things they taught me and I’d like them to know that. Every single one of them.
I am sure that if asked about Mrs. LaRue or Mrs. Stevens that they would have wonderful stories to tell. Although we worked in the same building, I never got to work in your class room. I spent several years with a Mrs. Robison for history and English. She wad strict but fair, pushing students to stretch beyond what they thought they could do and so many returned the following year (s) to say thank you for preparing them for the next level. She always reminded me of you (if you’d taught high school). Really excellent teachers are cut from fine cloth–linen I think, lovely to touch and feel, but strong and comforting all at the same time.
Your blog brings up many pleasant memories. I’m so glad I managed to finally become a teacher, even though my years in the classroom were a fraction of yours. Because I borrowed your daily newsletter idea, you even influenced some of my students. After we had to give up that morning ritual because we lost that time to the mandated spelling groups, my kids told me they really missed that newsletter time.
Dear Readers of Sydney’s blog: We shared teachers in both Jr. High and High School. My memory always goes back to 8th grade English teacher, Dorothea Barnes. High School: Adele Patterson and Mrs. Palmer. Ditto to Stephanie’s final sentence.
It was such fun being with
the three fourth-grade classes last week to tell them about the Oysterville Science Academy. The old teacher persona wells up from inside you become the best you can be! There’s truth in “Once a teacher, always a teacher”.