Remembering Mrs. F. ~ Elementary School

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.”

 

 

 

 

The Sound of the Voice

When I was a little girl I was drawn to the sound of the British English voice. My earliest memory of this occurrence is listening and reading along to the story of Hansel and Gretel on my red Raggedy Ann record player. I would listen to the story again and again as the soothing voice washed over me.

My mother used to take me to restaurants often after her doctor’s appointment or an early morning ice skating lesson. I would order a cup of tea and a Danish or other similar pastry heated with a pat of butter. As I look back on this ritual, I do not recall how this young seven or eight year old—I can’t recall the exact age—came to order this instead of milk or oatmeal or pancakes. It was the same each time. I would whisper to my mother what I wanted and she would place my order. This time together with my mother was one of the few peaceful memories that I can recall having with her, where she had no worries, where life was grand, just her and her girl.

I had several ice skating instructors and would practice and take lessons at different ice rinks. The name of the instructor that has always stayed in my thoughts was Grace. She wasn’t British, but I recall her voice and how kind she was to me. It’s possible that she was Canadian. She spoke regular American English, though the way she sounded was like a beautiful white swan; she was the embodiment of her name.

As I continue looking back on memory, I can see myself—a little girl looking in the mirror and talking to herself in a British English accent. This little girl would then giggle, run over to the side table and take a sip of her tea in the most proper way. She would only do this when no one was looking. The giggling part probably wasn’t so proper.

I’ve come to realize or maybe—not realize—rather, I’ve wondered did I like my voice better when it was this way…when I was pretending? And is this possibly one of the reasons that I don’t like hearing my voice when I speak unless it’s raspy from a cold or in small bits of Spanish?

This has led me back to a piece that I wrote a few years back simply called, “The Voice.” I wrote it out in my notebook and I’ve wanted to type it up for all these years and to read it aloud and post the audio along with my blog. From the moment I wrote the piece, it felt as if it were meant to be read aloud by the speaker of the piece; I am the speaker of course, then again, perhaps I am not. In any case, I feel that I must detach from it. I fear that if too much more time passes, I either will not ever post it or “The Voice” will become irrelevant to me.

I recognize and enjoy my voice on the printed page when my self esteem is above the red line. Now I must learn to appreciate the verbal sound of my voice, the sound bytes that do not feel as though they convey the depths of my being.

I will post it eventually. It’s inevitable. This is my prelude—my commitment to myself.

I cannot be afraid of the spoken sound of my voice any longer—or of sharing that voice.

A Girl on a Bridge

Two lone images from childhood past: A little girl on a Japanese bridge; the other of a little girl in the crowd, a dragon, firecrackers, loud noises, colors, many people. The common factor in both images is of a mother in the foreground somewhere; or perhaps she is in the background, but her presence is there and so this little girl, now a woman, is drawn to the Japanese Garden. When she takes a trip to Portland, Oregon, almost a year and a half ago, part of the reason she decided to go was to visit two gardens: The Japanese and The Chinese.

She begins to wonder if she conjured this childhood image of a girl on a bridge. There is no one to confirm whether this happened in reality or in her mind. All she knows is that she has always been drawn to the Asian mode—the little she has been exposed to along the way and the little she has inquired about. She knows that she can never be a part of that culture because it is not her own by birth, yet she feels a deep connection to the nuances.

So she goes through life, with this image, that surfaces at different points and that is when she asks herself if part of her draw to these magnificent gardens, besides naturally loving nature and simplicity—she asks herself if this is yet another reason that the gardens have a hold on her—that she finds a little piece of her mother and her self in them and that she someone knows that although her mother was not obviously present in her memory, she knows she was there somewhere sharing these precious moments with her girl.

**

My trip to Portland, Oregon, was largely a pull to see both gardens. That was in October of 2010. Since then, I have visited the Hayward and San Jose Japanese Gardens; and I have also revisited the San Francisco Japanese Garden and saw that bridge that I remembered from my childhood. My significant other took me early in our relationship, and he also had childhood memories of the bridge. I didn’t take a current photo. I was more interested in admiring the bridge and I know we'll be back to visit.

Of all the Japanese Gardens, each had a specialness; and in Portland, that was the first Chinese Garden I had ever visited.

I don’t think I will ever travel to Japan because it’s quite too expensive for my budget, but it is said that the garden in Portland is one of the most authentic outside of Japan. I loved it. It was grand and I immediately felt a sense of peace and tranquility. I plan on going back, and this time I will share the experience with my other half. The part of me that is now we. And this will be very soon.