"The dream begins with a teacher who believes in you, who tugs and pushes and leads you to the next plateau, sometimes poking you with a sharp stick called 'truth'."
-Dan Rather
Sabrina was complaining about the drudgery of having to learn grammar in her otherwise thoroughly enjoyable English class. I had little sympathy for her. Grammar is becoming obsolete in the school system these days. A tragedy, if you ask me. But I was reminded of a time that I exhibited similar complaints to my unsympathetic mother.
It was my sophomore year at Granite High School. Some of my best teachers came from good ol' Granite High. The school was nearly as old as the state and held quite a history. I say "was", because Granite High closed down just a few years ago, much to the sorrow of its many many students scattered across the state. I walked into my first high school english class. Honors English. Because I was honors class material, and I knew it.
Miss Wallace stood at the front of the class room. She was a tall woman, always nicely dressed. At the time, I was positive she was in her 70's, but upon looking back, she was probably only in her 50's. She never came to school without her lipstick and usually applied it at least once in class. She had that typical English Teacher look to her. She was a bitter divorcee, who we all believed had an inner hatred towards men. I can remember my dad coming home from back-to-school night describing how much the woman scared him. One class period, she mentioned that she had been housing a returned-missionary. She paused for a moment then burst out, "Oh spread it! Go ahead and spread it!" We all stared back at her in dumb-founded terror.
I can remember turning in my first essay. Now was my chance to knock the socks off this old spinster. You see, I had dazzled my 9th grade Honors English teacher with my flowery writing. The Synonym Finder had become my best friend, and I prided myself on being able to fit 15 adjectives into one sentence. You could say, "it was a dark room". Or you could say, "it was a lightless, black, shadowy, unilluminated room", and that was always much better. Upon receiving back my first graded essay, one word was written boldly across the top:
WORDY!
it said. How dare she! She proceeded to inform the class of how hideous all of our essays were, and that she had no choice but to start at square one, which was so very disappointing considering this was an honors english class. She would begin by teaching us grammar. We all moaned in disbelief. We formed a posse and marched back to our old Junior High to lay our complaints before that very teacher who had given us so much praise the year before. Surely she could do something about this tyrant! She gave us the same smug look my mother gave me, and that I gave Sabrina the other night. Apparently, no one was on our side. No one was going to remove Miss Wallace from her position. We had no choice but to endure her class.
Over time, I began to fear Miss Wallace less and respect her more. She would ask a question, perhaps having to do with the central theme of a book we were reading. It was horrifying to be called on. You would begin to verbally assemble an answer to her question. You knew you were on the right track when her hands would move up close to her face, and her fingers would begin to sway, much like a witch casting a spell. Her fingers would move faster and her expression became more animated as you got closer to the answer she was looking for. It was a veritable game of "Hot and Cold". As you finally came to what seemed like a reasonable conclusion, Miss Wallace's hand would move to her mouth as her face would abruptly turn to the window. The class would sit in stunned silence as she pondered your feeble answer. Eventually she would turn from her musing and simply reply, "No.", then would call on some other unfortunate soul for an answer. Initially, such a rejection was mortifying, but you eventually learned not to take it personally. And every once in awhile, you got a resounding "Yes!", and the satisfaction was sweet.
I began to learn how to write essays that were clear and concise. I can not think of ol' Wallace without the words clear and concise echoing in my brain. And the grammar became engrained in my psyche. Jessica tried to correct my grammar a few months ago, and I quickly informed her that the term I had used was an object of a preposition, and had therefore, been used correctly. She's not the only one who listened in english class.
It is possible that I use more nougats of knowledge gathered from Miss Wallace than from any other teacher. If Miss Wallace could comment on my blog today, she would probably emphasize my wordiness. It is a weakness I continue to struggle with. And I'm sure she would cringe at my dangling participles and misuse of semicolons. But I do believe I am a better writer today, because of the woman who influenced me in that old high school classroom over two decades ago.
Looking back, I don't believe she was a bitter old woman at all. She was simply a woman with an abundance of intelligence and spunk. And boy did she know her stuff! If we crossed paths today, I believe she would be just the sort of woman I'd like to have as a friend. A conversation over the ironies of life and literature, with Miss Wallace, would be a treat indeed. I'm sure we'd enjoy some good laughs.
Every young person should have a few exceptional teachers who leave that lasting mark upon their developing mind. Miss Wallace was that kind of teacher for me. It's too bad that I didn't express that to her twenty years ago, in the most clear and concise way I knew how, naturally.
Over time, I began to fear Miss Wallace less and respect her more. She would ask a question, perhaps having to do with the central theme of a book we were reading. It was horrifying to be called on. You would begin to verbally assemble an answer to her question. You knew you were on the right track when her hands would move up close to her face, and her fingers would begin to sway, much like a witch casting a spell. Her fingers would move faster and her expression became more animated as you got closer to the answer she was looking for. It was a veritable game of "Hot and Cold". As you finally came to what seemed like a reasonable conclusion, Miss Wallace's hand would move to her mouth as her face would abruptly turn to the window. The class would sit in stunned silence as she pondered your feeble answer. Eventually she would turn from her musing and simply reply, "No.", then would call on some other unfortunate soul for an answer. Initially, such a rejection was mortifying, but you eventually learned not to take it personally. And every once in awhile, you got a resounding "Yes!", and the satisfaction was sweet.
I began to learn how to write essays that were clear and concise. I can not think of ol' Wallace without the words clear and concise echoing in my brain. And the grammar became engrained in my psyche. Jessica tried to correct my grammar a few months ago, and I quickly informed her that the term I had used was an object of a preposition, and had therefore, been used correctly. She's not the only one who listened in english class.
It is possible that I use more nougats of knowledge gathered from Miss Wallace than from any other teacher. If Miss Wallace could comment on my blog today, she would probably emphasize my wordiness. It is a weakness I continue to struggle with. And I'm sure she would cringe at my dangling participles and misuse of semicolons. But I do believe I am a better writer today, because of the woman who influenced me in that old high school classroom over two decades ago.
Looking back, I don't believe she was a bitter old woman at all. She was simply a woman with an abundance of intelligence and spunk. And boy did she know her stuff! If we crossed paths today, I believe she would be just the sort of woman I'd like to have as a friend. A conversation over the ironies of life and literature, with Miss Wallace, would be a treat indeed. I'm sure we'd enjoy some good laughs.
Every young person should have a few exceptional teachers who leave that lasting mark upon their developing mind. Miss Wallace was that kind of teacher for me. It's too bad that I didn't express that to her twenty years ago, in the most clear and concise way I knew how, naturally.
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