posted on December 20, 2007 10:26:32 PM new
Today, my son related an act of vandalism a classmate got suspended 1 day for. It reminded me of a similar act I committed in the third grade. A wave of memories of how kindly and and wisely my third grade teacher dealt with it overcame me. I also remembered other reasons why I loved her - I was already hooked on reading, the Mrs. Pigglewiggles, Nancy Drew, etc. She introduced me to really great children's literature. She read to us daily from wonderful books, making me check them out from the library so I could read ahead, far beyond my grade level. I kept going back to her to visit and give her a jar of my Grandma's jelly through the 6th grade. I assumed she was long dead, but curious, looked her up on the web and found that she died 5 years ago on Christmas day at age 100. Her sister, also unmarried and a teacher at the same school, died the year before at age 102. I wish I had done the search five years earlier. I would love to write her a note and tell her how she has affected me. Hats off to Julia Diehm!
posted on December 21, 2007 04:55:16 AM new
Wow! That would make Miss Diehm only 52 when I had her! I thought she was a gazillion years old back then. So, what was this act of vandalism you committed?
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posted on December 21, 2007 08:12:52 AM new
Neglus, here's a an article about everyone's favorite high school teacher, Miss Westby. A very tough teacher, her classes were hard to get into. The description is just as I remember her:
Back in profane mid-America, our chronically dour school principal measured the length of male students' bangs and female students' skirts with a tape measure every morning. Hard to imagine now isn't it? If the sallow bloke ever got a cheap thrill out of either activity he certainly never showed it.
Barely over five feet tall and middled aged, Charlotte Westby ruled her classroom with an iron, albeit withered hand. She favored garish, late period Bette Davis style make up with ominously thick penciled eyebrows. ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ comes to mind. She was inclined toward chiffon dresses in aquarelle tints that would be at home with a Sunday go to meeting cloche hat and white gloves.
Miss Westby's students were expected to write three compositions per week. With absolutely no exceptions barring the direst of circumstances. If even one composition was missing or incomplete, the offending party was denied a cap and gown. And her teaching methods were very rigorous for acne plagued, self-conscious teenagers, whose raging hormones prevented even the tiniest bit of serenity. She displayed all students' compositions on an overhead projector painfully larger than life. And in a loud voice would call out, no one escaped, "Comments!" When we hemmed and hawed, she would encourage us by using a pointer she held in her good hand, articulately pointing out errors in composition, grammar, spelling, and punctuation.
Miss Westby had a palsied arm she often used with great aplomb to further intimidate already quivering adolescents. She was very theatrical and from time to time would swing her arm so it rested on the small of her back. Then when we least suspected it, she would swing it back around so it dangled ominously at her side again. Already a film junkie, I was convinced she was emulating Peter Seller's bravura performance in Dr. Strangelove.
I suspect that early on in her teaching career, Charlotte Westby realized that as a compact woman with a physical disadvantage, she had to take control of her classroom or the students would quickly fill that void. Why did her students often come to have deep affection for her? Because she was as relentless as she expected us to be in pursuit of our own level of excellence. She would spend an exhaustive amount of time after class with any student who needed it. I remember waiting while she helped a pupil who was on the cusp of developmental disability. It was quite laborious for both parties. The student finally achieved a miniscule breakthrough. There was a palpable relief, followed by a spasmodic burst of joy from both teacher and pupil that is still vivid for me today.
http://www.koreabridge.com/writings/nonfiction/ataleoftwoteachers.shtml
[ edited by pixiamom on Dec 21, 2007 08:59 AM ]
posted on December 21, 2007 01:38:22 PM new
My favorite teacher was a man named Holloway. He taught 5th grade. He was hardnosed and demanding, but fair. Hardly anybody ever got a swat twice from Mr. Holloway because he made them count. A friend and I were notable exceptions. My buddy had bought a pair of cheater dice at a magic shop in Phoenix, and we were busy taking quarters from 4th graders in the bathroom when Mr. H walked in. As it happened it was two weeks before the end of school. Mr. Holloway offered us the following deal: We had our choice, our fathers could be called to school then and there, or we could meet Mr. H every morning till the end of school and try our hand at rolling a pair of legitimate dice. If we were luck enough to roll doubles; no swat. No doubles, you get a swat. We both felt that this was eminently better than what would happen to us if our old men found out we were gambling and cheating younger kids out of their milk money, so we took a chance. I don't remember what my buddy rolled, but in 9 days, I got exactly two doubles, and 7 Holloway swats. I don't think I ever told the old man about that, and I only admitted it to my mother a few years before she passed on.
posted on December 22, 2007 09:47:09 PM new
During WWII, in Lansing, Illinois, my 4th and 5th grade teacher was Mrs Jacobson. Pretty, sweet, kindly, everything a girl could look up to.
Mr Rodriguez, my North Phoenix h.s. Latin teacher, had been a priest in Puerto Rico. He was a little man, soft-spoken, kindly, thoughtful--and when I had the measles in May during my freshman year finals, he CAME TO OUR HOUSE, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, and held up flashcards for vocabulary so I could study them. My parents were dumbfounded and very grateful.
And Mr Bridgewater, at North High, scolded me after school one day, my junior year; said I was getting A grades too easily and challenged me to work harder on critical reading reports. He gave me IQ tests and proved to me that I was much smarter than I thought I was, and capable of much more. Bless him, he gave me the confidence I needed, and I never looked back!
I'd love to be able to thank those three teachers whom I remember so fondly.
_____________________
Among my favorites are the male teachers with a twinkle in their eyes who also appreciated my academic achievement. And I'll always treasure the one who gave me an "A" for effort in Chemistry. But my number one favorite is the teacher who taught me to appreciate and enjoy good literature.
Having said that, none of them could top my Dad, who taught me all that I needed to know.
And I'll always treasure the one who gave me an "A" for effort in Chemistry. But my number one favorite is the teacher who taught me to appreciate and enjoy good literature.