Public School

The night before my first day of school each year was fraught. I carefully picked my outfit the days beforehand — a fuzzy blue sweater and plaid skirt one year. Blue jeans and a t-shirt with dancing tigers the next. If finding out who my teacher would be in July a few weeks beforehand was nausea-inducing, then this was full out stomach flu.

I have to be clear. This wasn’t dread. Pure anxiety, yes, but my parents weren’t concerned. It was routine.

You see, I was excited. I was physically unable to handle my joy at school starting the next day.

I loved summer, truly. But did I really love summer if a highlight of the season was writing my name on each individual crayon I would bring to school the following month?

Maybe it was how I was raised. My mom was a 1st grade and kindergarten teacher. Her mother a kindergarten teacher. I felt — and still feel — this pull toward education. When I open up my laptop each day at work and slowly chip away at dozens of emails, I miss growing mold in science class.

I know that not everyone feels this way about their schooling. I certainly know that not every kid was unsuccessfully trying to force sleep the night before a new year (my little brother had NO problem with this).

But what I also know is that even with this reverence for my education, I take it for granted sometimes. I feel this way when I think of the hardworking public school teachers that shaped me. I hear their lessons, both on and off curriculum, in my head even now…

Miss T

Miss T had fiery red hair and two pet guinea pigs — Richard III and Gloucester. I was a 12 year-old with raging hormones surrounded by boys I had crushes on and she STILL commanded the room and held my attention.

She taught all subjects and directed the nearby high school’s musical each year. In class, instead of sitting at our desks and reading out loud, she’d assign us specific characters to read for and we’d act out the dialogue.

That year, we read The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin (still a favorite). I’ll never know how intentional Miss T was about this, but she “cast” me as Angela Wexler. A woman who starts out being defined by others based on her relationship and then commands her independence in a (literally) explosive way. It stuck with me, that she thought I could play someone who could flip the script like that. She chose me for the role with the biggest twist instead of someone on the sidelines.

Mr. P

Mr. P had a kind voice that rang true in every encounter you had with him. In between lessons, he’d tell stories of growing up in The Hill in St. Louis. He said the word “quarter” like “quaw-tah” and it made us laugh so he’d unnecessarily work it in more frequently.

Mr. P had a gigantic iguana named Buela. At least once a week, he’d take Buela out of her cage and let her walk around while we worked on an assignment. At the beginning of the year, many of us were a bit scared of Buela (who, without warning, would sometimes sprint across the room in between the desks). Buela would sit on Mr. P’s shoulder and eat whole bananas at a time. There were also bearded dragons and a snake in his room.

I used to hate looking at and learning about anything reptilian before I was in Mr. P’s class. Now I can see beauty in even the scaliest of creatures.

Mr. P was also my teacher the year we got the Star Lab. The Star Lab was a gigantic blown up and blackened dome that they set in the middle of the library at school. During class, we’d all climb in the tubular entrance and sit around Mr. P and his lantern on the inside. Once safely ensconced, he’d turn on the stars and talk to us about dying stars and how light travels to our eyes.

I used to never notice the sky beyond a dazzling sunrise or sunset. Now, I have every mobile app known to man for stargazing.

Mr. T

I had just moved to a new city at the start of eighth grade. I left behind a close group of friends and had avoided being the new kid for the longest stretch yet.

But now, I was sweaty. I was going to have to keep my braces on for an additional year. I was still wearing Aeropostale.

I went quiet.

Mr. T was my history teacher. He loved genealogy and gave his daughter a very Scottish name to honor his own. He could amplify his voice to epic proportions at the drop of a hat, but never in anger. He helped coach the football team.

He could sense my new kid shyness from a mile away. For the first few weeks in class, I was silent, still mourning my previous life. He’d crack a self-deprecating joke, prompt my smirk, and then come over and say, “What’s so funny, chatty?”

He began to treat me, in front of the class, like I was too cool for his humor and already knew the history lessons he was teaching. He’d look over at me and ask if he was telling it correctly.

Initially, I was baffled and too gullible to catch on. Eventually, I laughed every time.

And then, suddenly, I started raising my hand.

…

I could write stories like this about almost every teacher I ever had (and I haven’t even scratched the surface on the teacher of my life, my mother). Even when I resisted it. Even when I was watching the clock to leave on a Friday afternoon. Even on days where I cursed a seemingly futile assignment.

They found new ways to make school feel like a place I wanted to return to. Theirs are the voices I still hear. I owe them everything for how they honored me with their effort.