The Teacher That Changed My Life

When I was in third grade I didn’t talk. I wasn’t mute, just extremely shy and had a speech impediment that made me self-conscious and embarrassed. We had also just moved to town so I didn’t know anybody. I could talk to the teacher if she was right next to me, but if she called on me in class I was unable to get coherent words out.

My teacher sent me to the special education teachers to be evaluated. This was a long time ago, and I have only vague memories, but I do remember going to see someone in a big office with lots of desks, and lots of adults talking on phones and typing on typewriters. I remember taking some standardized tests, and being quizzed about words and symbols on flashcards.

A few years ago I was going through a drawer at my parent’s house and found a bunch of folder with my, and my sister’s, school information. There were report cards, drawings, tests, papers, that sort of thing. It went back to kindergarten for both of us. One thing I found was the assessment from third grade. I was evaluated to determine if I was mentally retarded. The report said that I was above of average intelligence, but was extremely shy and withdrawn.

This is the story of the teacher who changed my life.

My father was in the military and we moved frequently. I was born in Chicago and spent the first two years of my life in State College, Pennsylvania, where my father was attending school for a degree in Meteorology. After he graduated we moved to Travis Air Force Base in California, where my Dad was a weather forecaster. He then went to Korea for a year, and my Mom, sister, and I lived in Chicago near family. When he returned we lived in O’Fallon, Illinois, near Scott Air Force Base. I went to kindergarten and first grade there.

I have only the vaguest memories of kindergarten and first grade. I do remember, however, speech therapy class. I had a lisp, a stammer, and for some reason didn’t bring my tongue behind by teeth when I made the “g,” “ch,” and “sh” sounds. I remember having to practice saying these sounds over and over again. I found a worksheet in my mother’s drawer with endless rows of “ch” and “sh.” I must written letters as I said the sounds, over and over, practicing saying them with my tongue in the right place. I also remember learning to listen to myself as I spoke, so I could hear what my words sounded like.

Beyond that my memory is that I enjoyed school. I remember playing with friends on the playground, doing math problems on the chalk board, and once watching “Dumbo” in the school auditorium. And I remember eating in the school cafeteria. I probably remember that because we would get smacked if we had our elbows on the table. It was a much different time.

We moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan after first grade. I recall bringing a package with me to my new school and a letter for my new teacher. I had no idea what was in them but assume they had basic information about my academic record from kindergarten and first grade. They also likely noted that I had a speech impediment because I again had speech therapy class.

I remember much more about second grade than first grade. I can picture the school and my classroom in my mind. But I don’t recall the name of my second grade teacher. I do recall that she was older, and not just older in the vague sense that children have. She had grey hair so I assumed that she was old like my grandparents, and not like my parents.

I vividly recall reading. We read the old “Dick and Jane” books.

“See Spot run.”

“Run Spot run.”

I remember this because we had to stand up and read. We sat in our chairs in a large circle. There were probably fifteen or twenty of us. The teacher would ask a first student to read a page, and then the next child would stand up and read the next page.

I remember standing up and starting to read, or rather trying to read. The words came out in my sloppy lisp, “thee thpot run.” The other kids laughed. I’m sure they all didn’t, but it seemed like they all did. I know now that people laugh for many reasons and not just out of amusement or ridicule. People often laugh out of discomfort or embarrassment, and frequently laugh to ease a tense situation. But at the time it just seemed like ridicule. That made me embarrassed and self-conscious. And so it became harder to read. I began to stumble over words, stammer more, get confused, lose my place. I trudged on, desperate to get through with it, get to the end of my page. But when I got to the end the teacher made me read the next page.

After that the teacher would make me stand up and read out loud more than the other kids. It seemed to me that she would call on me whenever she had the chance, and if she didn’t have an opportunity she would create one.

For most of my life I’ve assumed that this was nothing more than pure cruelty. I had a sense that she disliked me and was picking on me. Now I’m not so sure. I wonder if she may have thought she was helping me, that if I did it over and over I would eventually “get over it.” That attitude seemed prevalent back then.

But it had the opposite effect. Every time we had to read out loud, I would get nervous and uncomfortable. As my turn to read approached, I would feel sick to my stomach. This anxiety exacerbated my speech problems. The more I struggled the more the teacher made me read. The more I read the more the kids laughed, the more they laughed the more I stammered and the more embarrassed and self-conscious I became.

I don’t really remember how long this went on. For some reason I think it was all year. I now find that almost impossible to believe, but it was a much different time. I do know that on many occasion my sister, who was then in the fourth grade, had to come to my class to calm me down. I also recall one incident where we were reading right after lunch. When it was my turn to read I stood up and vomited chocolate milk on the book in my hands.

By the end of the year it was nearly impossible for me to talk out loud in class. I would flush with embarrassment anytime my name was called for anything. If I had to speak I would feel physically ill. I found it nearly impossible to think, much less speak. I even became uncomfortable when other kids looked at me.

My second grade teacher changed my life.

In third grade I wouldn’t speak in class. After I was assessed my teacher did what she could to help me. I could talk to her, and in small groups, but if I had to say anything to the whole class my heart would start banging and I found it nearly impossible to think.

I continued to take speech therapy classes. By sixth grade I was able to speak normally. But I avoided any situation where I might have to talk in front of more than a few people. I never ever raised my hand to volunteer an answer. If called on I would only give the barest, most monosyllabic answer possible.

Despite this I did pretty well in school, and went off to college. I went to a large state university, the University of Illinois, where most of my classes were big. Freshman year most of my classes were lectures with hundreds of students, so there was no worry about getting called on. I had a few small classes, calculus and quiz section, but the graduate students teaching these classes could care less about student participation. I studied engineering, and so being shy and socially awkward was the norm.

I joined the Air Force after graduation and worked for a couple of years as an engineer, then applied for flight training and became an aircraft navigator. Neither job required any public speaking, which was good. But if you want to advance in the military (or in any adult job), you have to be involved, join committees, go to mixers, network. And I find that nearly impossible. When I walk into a room full of people I don’t know I feel like I’m walking into my third grade class. And I am unable to speak. I feel my heart rate increase and my face flush with embarrassment. In many situations when I have to speak to people I don’t know I become tongue tied and my stammer returns.

I spent seven years in the Air Force and decided it was not what I wanted to do for a career, so I got out and went to law school. That may seem odd, but I have always been interested in history, politics, and philosophy, and law is the practical application of all three. And my sister is a lawyer so I knew that only a tiny percentage of lawyers are in the court room. My biggest fear was reciting cases in class, but I think my anxiety forced me to take good notes so if I was called on I could just read what I’d written. And I was old enough and smart enough to know that I had to force myself to do it. I also knew that it wouldn’t kill me.

I am now a patent attorney, so things didn’t turn out too bad. But I still avoid situations where I have to talk in front of people I don’t know.

My personal version of hell is a cocktail party with a bunch of people I don’t know standing around chit-chatting. I have almost no ability to walk up to people and start a conversation. My heart begins to race, I get tongue tied, my thinking gets occluded. It’s a simple physiological response. As you get nervous you heart rate increases, which lowers the blood pressure which means that less blood gets to the brain. This causes the vision to grey-out on the edges, and makes it difficult to think clearly.

I often wonder what my life would’ve been like if I wasn’t so shy, self-conscious, insecure, and socially awkward. I wonder what my career prospects would have been had I been able to talk comfortably in front of people.

When I was looking through my Mom’s collection of old school records I found my Second Grade Report card. It was in a medium sized envelope opened at the top. It had the school name on it, with my name and grade typed on the outside. The teacher’s name wasn’t on the outside. But the report card was inside. I could have easily pulled it out and looked. But I didn’t.

My second grade teacher changed my life. I’m not going to apologize for not knowing her name.