There are educators that give 110% of themselves to their students every single day, but I honestly believe that I got the ones that gave 120%. I have written about a few of them before, but in honor of the week, I would like to highlight one more.
Mrs. Barbara Williams- 8th Grade Social Studies
Mrs. Williams was the first teacher to ever give me in-school suspension. Yep, I was chewing bubble gum. Tough kid, hard-core stuff. But rules were rules, and one had to adhere to them.
I still have the signed yellow detention slip, dated 2/11/93. I use it as a reminder that a person is only as good as their word. Mrs. Williams had said that if anyone- apparently that meant me too- was caught chewing gum, then they would be assigned ISS. No exceptions, no excuses.
Evidently gum was making the rounds onto too many places- desks, floors, walls- basically everywhere except for where it belonged. It was for the best really because I would have been mortified if my gum had ended up on the sole of her Prada pumps. I honestly don't know if she wore Prada, but she looked like it. She was the epitome of sophistication who internalized a quiet strength, and could easily be called a figurehead for compassion.
Always elegant in both her attire and composure, Mrs. Williams held court in anything but a stately classroom. We were at an old country school without air conditioning, and we had those radiators that every teacher said we'd crack our heads on if we didn't stop leaning back in our chairs. But Mrs. Williams believed that room to be the segue to greatness, and thus we did too. It was instilled on a daily basis that us, her handful of students, could and would change the world. She continuously encouraged us to blaze new trails, become leaders, and to live out our dreams. With every history lesson, we were reminded that it only took one person to make a difference.
Myself, along with a few others, were chosen by her to participate in a living history day at the local county museum. And while we were clothed in the costume of early colonial settlers, we were also draped by her devotion to make us believe that one day we would be just as important as those we were impersonating.
In my yearbook she wrote: "Madam President, Just remember me when you get elected to some high office. I appreciate your interest in politics and history. Additionally, you know how to speak your mind and offer your opinion in a nice way. I'm glad you came back to Cool Spring! Sincerely, Mrs. Williams."
See what I mean?
I am undoubtedly a massive dork, so you can only imagine how that nerdiness drifted into my apparel. I had one earring, huge glasses, and always wore two different colored socks. On the day of graduation, Mrs. Williams pulled me to the side and pointed down to her shoes. Initially I was terrified that she had stepped in gum. But no. Instead, she had on two different colored shoes! She proceeded to give me the largest grin I'd ever seen from her and said, "I did this for you."
Now, a part of me can't help but think that she put her shoes on in the dark that morning, but a larger part of me wants to believe that she really did do that just for me. Either way, no one will ever be able to fill her shoes. She is retired now and I grieve for the kids who will never pretend to cross the Delaware, never participate in a mock Presidential debate, or never chew gum in her class.
This coming week when you send your kids off to school, how about sending along a simple note of thanks to their teacher? And if you are lucky enough to still be in contact with your own former educators, send them a note too (or a pair of mismatched shoes).
