We were out of town for Teacher Appreciation Week the first week of May but I still wanted to do a post about a teacher that sticks out in my mind. I was never a great student. If I don't have interest in a subject, it's incredibly hard for me to learn; it's like my brain shuts down. I can't count how many times teachers notes on report cards said "does not apply herself" or "social butterfly." (I believe my mom said she got the same comments, particularly the social butterfly, so I get it honestly.) The Mr and I have many conversations about how our education was handled back in the day because it wasn't by either of our parents. It was "these grades are unacceptable, you're better than that" or I was asked "do you need a tutor?" said in a tone that was more as a threat than presented as help. 1) She knew I didn't want to do more school work than I was already doing 2) the few rare times I asked her to help with homework it was a shrug and "I don't know!" (totally get it- I would be the same if we had kids especially that BS new math crap) and 3) I knew she couldn't afford one. I always made promises to do better and rarely ever did because I just did not know how to make subjects I had no interest in like history or math stick in my brain.
When middle school (7th/8th grade) rolled around, I fell into a new bad habit: not turning in homework. Some would think this is stupid but do a search and you'll see this is not a new problem then or now. Sometimes I would literally have the homework done and wouldn't turn it in. That is insane to me but often times, I wouldn't have the homework done. As an 80's latchkey kid, I was left to my own devices maybe 60% of the time. Mom was working one full time job with inconsistent hours early on after the divorce (might be off by 5pm, might be off by 10pm). Then when she got an 8-5pm job when I was in middle school, she also did a filler job doing party plan type stuff. I was trusted to do my homework, do it right and nothing under a C was acceptable though I rarely remember a report card without a D thrown in which was usually in my worst subjects. To admit I needed help meant I would have to burden her time and wallet, neither of which she had extra of thanks to a crappy child support arrangement. I just didn't care and I was fine flying under the radar and getting the same old speech come report card time.
Well, in middle school they had mid-term progress reports. Horrible little pieces of paper for us underachievers that let our parents know we were sucking but supposedly gave us enough time to right the ship before the end of the grading period. In middle school, we had two teachers for our whole year. The teachers were right beside each other and we would have one as our main teacher and then shuttle next door depending on the subject. In seventh grade, I had the absolute worst teachers you could get. Mr. H was what at my age now I would consider to be a silver fox but was so completely filled with anger and zero patience that your only job was to stay on his good side so that vein wouldn't pop out of his blood red forehead when you pushed him to his limit. The times he actually had a kind word or a hint of a smile could be counted on one hand but were appreciated. He was my main teacher that year. Mrs. P was science and math, I believe, my two worst subjects. She was the equivalent to Cameron from Ferris Bueller's Day Off- so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up her ass, in two weeks you'd have a diamond. Lips always pursed, "11 lines" between her eyebrows of resting bitch face before it was a thing and I only remember her laughing once. It was when she said orgasm instead of organism in science and we all howled with laughter and whooping as one does when you're 13 and she turned beet red, tried not to laugh and scolded us all to grow up. (Obviously, we snickered the rest of the time.) I remember the first time I got one of those progress reports, I thought it was just for us. I didn't know you had to take them home, have your parents initial them and bring them back. When Mr. H asked where mine was a week after they were due back, I relayed this info and he printed a new one. I was fine to take it home because, as would be my whole M.O., I would go into the school year with my best foot forward so it was actually good. All A's and B's and a C, I think. When the next one rolled around, there was a D in it. My motivation waned and it didn't help I had a real scuzzball in my worst classes who insisted on sitting close to me every time. He was a thief, carried a switchblade and some days you were on his good side, other days if you didn't let him copy off of you, he'd make a threat. I was constantly on edge in those classes and then would have to go back to my homeroom classes and see who was going to incur Mr. H's wrath from the stoner set. I still remember the day I tanked a test that I actually studied for and as he flipped it onto my desk, he looked me straight in the eye and said "you're better than this." I'm tearing up just typing it because I knew that but because his personality was so similar to my dad's, it was like disappointing him too. You'd think that would've motivated me but it didn't because I thought "no I'm not" and I proved it every grading period.
When 8th grade rolled around, I promised myself I would do better. I needed to get my crap together because when I went into high school the following year, every teacher would be different for every subject and I needed to be able to do well. My math and science teacher was this thin, wimpy little man. Mr E who was truly as nerdy as they came. Even he got bullied by students which was sad to see and made it hard to take him seriously because he had zero authority. Sometimes he would just leave the classroom to gather himself. I only saw him yell once and it got everyone's attention. I wish he would've done it sooner because people really seemed to straighten up after that. My homeroom teacher for English and History was Mrs G. You would not have seen a cuter older woman in your life. She had that typical 80's short hairdo with large curls, a big, welcoming smile, hard candy in her desk drawer but she also didn't take shit. If you got out of line, she had no problem calling you out and if you were challenging her to look cool, she'd slam her hand down on the desk to "knock that crap off because maybe it impressed your friends but it doesn't impress me." It was a thing of beauty to watch this little "old" lady to us (she was only 60 but we were 13/14 so...) put the smack down on some jock or hood trying to act like he didn't care or disrespect her. I always loved her for that. I did the same and started off the school year with my best foot forward, no issues. Then the second progress report came and my grades in history and math dropped. Sometimes I turned in homework, sometimes it was late and sometimes not at all. In between 7th and 8th grade, my dad moved across the country and I'd just spent my first full month with him since I wouldn't be doing the every other weekend thing. I was grateful for that but it also meant I wouldn't get to spend time with my friends over the summer. I think my anxiety over that really kicked into high gear because I can remember that being the first time I began the whole ruminating, catastrophizing, etc. that happened right after the divorce and was never properly dealt with. I am fairly certain it was a cry for help because mom was always working (or if she was home, I didn't want to admit I needed help) and now dad was gone. (Not that he ever helped with that stuff anyway. You were expected to figure it out. He was from the school of children should be seen not heard.) I'm not necessarily blaming my bad grades on his move alone but I can tell you that my anxiety shot up much higher after knowing what I was in for and knowing that the only time dad ever called was around report card time to lecture me and make me feel like even more of a loser. I didn't know how to study properly and no one had anything more to offer than 'take notes.' Thanks. Never thought of that. 😒
After the first report card where my grades dropped, Mrs. G had parent teacher conferences. (Most kids nightmares unless you were an A/B student.) She told my mom that I wasn't turning in my homework or it would be late. I got a stern talking to asking why I wasn't turning it in and she got the standard shrug from me with an apathetic "I dunno."
"Well, you'd better figure it out because you have until the next progress report to get your crap together. Am I going to have to check in every day to make sure?"
"No."
Needless to say, I thought it was an idle threat as always. When the next progress report came out and it was noted as politely as possible I was still having homework issues, there was another conference. My mom asked if it would be okay if I had a notebook to write down the assignments, would she initial them to show they were correct and my mom would check to make sure I did the homework and initial next to it and then the teacher would initial she received the assignment. She agreed. I was mortified. I thought this would surely be a two week thing and it would go back to normal. It was a two month long thing before seeing if I could be trusted and when I started slipping after two weeks, it got reinstated. I don't know a teacher today that would have the time to do that crap for a student though I'm sure there are some who probably can through technology. Mrs. G. never made much of a fuss as I saw her early before the other kids so they wouldn't question/tease me about it. It was like disappointing your grandma for no good reason. I won't say that my grades rebounded to scholarly levels, I was always a solid B/C student (with that occasional D) my whole school career unless it was elective classes like Human Ecology, Home Ec, or something I was interested in. But I always remembered that she cared enough about me to do that. That when I did good on tests, my paper wasn't flipped upside down in shame but right side up with an encouraging "good job!" and a smile and pat on the shoulder as she passed by. Those always made me feel so good. She didn't judge me by some of the people I hung out with whom many would've considered bad influences because I suspect she thought I was a better influence on them. She was the only teacher I was going to miss when I left middle school and I got sent into high school with a big hug from her. I always remembered the extra mile she went for me to make sure I didn't flunk out. I knew she thought I could do better and was willing to take an extra few seconds at the beginning and end of the day to let me know it. I never felt judged by her and I wish I'd applied myself more to really turn it around into some big success story.
I thought of her often over the years, assuming she'd probably passed away since it's been about 35 years since I was in her class. I was scrolling one morning on vacation, when someone brought up "Black Monday." I only remember that because Mrs. G wrote something about it the day it happened and I remembered her looking very somber about it. I decided to see if I could look her up and she had only passed last year at the ripe old age of 94. How I wished I had tried to locate her so I could tell her what that gesture meant to me especially when I found out she had a social media profile too late. At the end of her obituary that talked of her love for family, faith, travel in retirement and international food, I saw she was buried at the same cemetery my co-worker is where we sometimes walk. I told the Mr when we got back I wanted to go see her. On one of our first walks back, there was a huge traffic tie up at our usual park so we went out there. I looked up her location on the cemetery's website and followed the map like a geocache. When I found her last name with a somewhat fresh grave in comparison to those around it, I saw her name was clumped over in dirt. I started using the heel of my shoe to remove it until I could confirm it was her. I was so mad that she was covered over, that I started furiously etching the cement-like clumps of dirt from her headstone that she shared with her husband. I vowed I would come back to clean it properly and bring her flowers. I saw her husband died in 1987...the same year I had her. The Mr saw another marker for him on the grave and said he died in April. I burst into tears and said "she only had that summer to grieve her husband and 6 months later she was having to help a slacker like me who wouldn't do something as simple as her homework." I felt horrible. I immediately remembered the look on her face when talking about Black Monday that year which now made sense because she'd just lost her husband and now I'm betting her retirement took a pretty solid hit at the age of 60. I had so much regret that flooded me as the Mr tried to say all he could to make me feel better and how she probably didn't mind putting in the effort for those she saw potential in. It didn't make me feel better. I apologized to her profusely out loud and in my head. I was glad to read that she was able to travel, loved a good party and spent time in South Carolina the past 25 years. It sounded like she was well traveled, well loved and lived a life many of us could only hope for after leaving the trials and tribulations of public school. I'm so happy for her and I was happy to see the only thing that really changed in the only picture of her in her obituary was her hair was white but still had the same sparkling brown eyes, sweet smile and looked sharp as ever. I am forever grateful to her.
Saturday, I made good on that promise. We came loaded up with tools to scrub and mini power wash her headstone as well as some geraniums I got from Michael's and floral foam for her vase. I dutifully scrubbed all of the clumped dirt around the letters of her last name as well as every crevice. I removed every spec of dirt from around her name and somewhat fresh date of death as best I could.
I used the little frother the Mr uses for indoor car washes to power off the dirt with water. I know they'll be mowing soon but I wanted her to have a clean stone. It was all I could do for her now. I've got your back Mrs. G., just like you had mine.
Teachers make such a difference in our lives, both good and bad. The ones that are for the better stay with us decades after we've left their tutelage. (Sorry Mrs. G. - spellcheck had to help me with that one.) It can be as simple as a smile, a little encouragement or going the extra mile when they have zero requirement to do so. You knew that someone believed in you and you always remember them fondly. So many teachers never know what their students ended up doing and can only hope they made a difference. I hope she knew what a difference she made for so many.
Shout out your favorite teacher in the comments and how they impacted your life.
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