I remember skipping down the pathway from kindergarten class
to greet my mother singing, “goody, goody, gumdrops.” A friend was by my side, skipping along with me, both of us
giggling, as we raced down that path towards our mothers waiting in their cars.
I also remember my teacher, Mrs. F., with such great
fondness. If my memory serves me, she was my teacher for first and second
grade; first grade at one school and second at another school when she
transferred. My mother could have selected a school that was slightly closer to
our home; instead she chose the school where Mrs. F. would be teaching. She was
bilingual and I have a feeling that she may have spoken to some of us in
Spanish at times. I felt safe in her classroom. I remember having fun and
learning, and she cared about each and every one of us.
I don’t doubt that it’s difficult to be a teacher. I don’t
know if I would be able to juggle so many temperaments and activities by
myself. I do think, however, that I would be more in my element as an assistant
teacher, possibly in kindergarten through second grade.
Recently when I walked into a second grade classroom the
teacher’s back was to me and I was greeted by her words to another student,
bending over him, saying, “no, that’s not right,” in a sharp tone. I said,
“excuse me,” so that I could get her attention and not risk hearing anymore. I
had to say excuse me again. She looked up with a smile on her face. I
introduced myself and told her that I was there for one of the students. Oddly
enough, it was the student who was being corrected by her.
She seemed nice enough when she didn’t sound so negative
with the student, but that scene left a slightly bad taste in my mouth. I felt
the words drill into me—not just the words, but the tone in which she said
them. I’ve had to tell myself since that time to not be judgmental and remind
myself that intuitively I know the teacher’s job is not an easy one and that I
only saw a small sliver.
The next time I went to this classroom for the same student,
she called the student for me. Just then a young girl second grader got up out
of her chair and began moving toward the teacher with a question—pencil and
paper in hand—excitement in her voice. “Sit!” the teacher said in an
authoritative voice. “Did I say you could get up?” Again the words sliced
through me, as the girl turned to go back to her seat. The boy and I left for
our reading session.
I wondered to myself if this was typical and if all second
grade teachers spoke to their students like this. I also thought of my dear
Mrs. F. I do recall that she had to raise her voice a few times, but I don’t
know that I remember any scolding that stands out. I’m sure she probably had to
be tough with us too. I mostly remember the caring that I felt in her
classroom. I can’t remember specific details, just the sound of her voice and
the smile on her face.
And about seven to ten years back, I ran into her on two
occasions, she was just as I remembered her and didn’t seem to have aged at
all. I recognized her immediately, greeted her, and she clearly remembered me
and reminisced for a few moments about how she loved her “little angels.”
Something that I had totally forgotten until recently is
that the second time that I bumped into her by chance I expressed an interest
in teaching. She told me that she was still at the same school where I had gone
and to drop by some time and sit in on her class. I have few regrets in life
and I try not to make the habit of collecting them. I do wish that I had
followed through. I never did. By now she is retired.
But she did make an impression upon me in my childhood and
later on in my adulthood when I saw her and spoke very briefly with her. How
lucky to bump into your favorite teacher, not once, but twice!
We were her “Little Angels.”
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