The (School) Teachers That Taught Me The Most

Talk about people who mold you! Teachers often have a huge impact on students, especially in the early years, and then I think again, in high school.

My early years were blessed with wonderful teachers. My first grade teacher, Lois Parks,  had the same birthday as I, which I thought made me really special. Harder to grasp was that her mother lived two doors down from me. I couldn't figure out how my teacher could actually have a mother and siblings!

I remember the excitement of learning to print and read. I wanted those books to be an actual part of me. And in a way, I guess they are.

My second grade teacher, Winnifred Hudson, was just as wonderful. It was her last year to teach. I remember when she died I was in my thirties. She was in her nineties. I hope those last years of her life were enjoyable. She gave me a lot of joy. Teaching me how to write cursive, growing me in my reading abilities. I loved every minute of it.

Then there are the teachers who teach you other things. Things that can hurt you if you aren't careful.

My ninth grade English teacher, Miss Dyer, was teaching her very first year. She herself had a lot to learn. She was extremely buck toothed, her eyes were crossed and she was bottom heavy. But you know what? If she had been nice, none of that would have mattered.

Instead, she set her beady little eyes on us and commenced to ridicule us for everything we were. She was from "up North" and had come South to teach the poor ignorant Appalachian children of her mind.

If she heard us say "hey" to each other, she would stop us and remind us that, "Hay is for horses, grass is cheaper."

She had already had the door knob to her classroom graced with a water filled condom. Her shrieks could be heard that  morning as she started to unlock the door, all the way down to the Principal's office.

I don't remember if we had turned in a writing assignment, or if she had confiscated one of my short stories from another student, but she held it in her hand one morning.

What I do remember is she had read it and was accusing me of plagiarism.

Now, as a fourteen year old, I had never heard the word plagiarism, but there was no mistaking the condescending tone of her voice.

When it became obvious to her no one in the room knew what she was talking about (other than she was obviously insulting me), she smugly gave us the definition.

The room exploded in my defense. These kids had been reading my junk since fifth grade. They knew what I was capable of, much more so than she.

I don't think I got an apology.

None of us did for her horrible behavior toward us all.

But she did not return the following year.

Another English high school teacher who was a huge influence on me, this time in a positive way, was Phil Wertz.

He made Shakespeare come alive. He explained it in such a way, had us read it in such a way, practicing out loud, that it became living color for us.

And  no, he didn't make fun of our hillbilly accents.

He introduced us to some really cool fiction, fiction that I would have not discovered (at least for a long time) if not for him.

By the way, he came to my first book signing. Thank you, Mr. Wertz.

Other teachers were kind to me, showed me leniency when I needed it and firmness when I needed it.

Good old Mr. Jones passed me in Algebra with a seventy and one fourth for the year because he knew there was no way on earth I could ever really pass it.

Mrs. Hagopian taught me to love another language. Viva la France!

Mr. Turner was amazed at my typing skills and pushed me to go faster and faster until I was doing 110 words a minute. Good thing he wasn't my driver's ed teacher.

Lee Ellen Newton, my Junior year English teacher introduced me to Tolkien. She even risked her  life by borrowing "The Hobbit" and the trilogy from a fellow teacher who would have killed her if something had happened to his copies.  Those books were almost impossible to find in 1971. She also said I had "incredible" writing skills.

Take that, Miss Dyer.

There are many, many more teachers who protected me, taught me, and even loved me

The few bad apples aren't even worth remembering - except that they taught me things, too.