Once again that train rolled in this morning at that special time it loves. I actually was a bit miffed more than usual this morning, because as I woke at that ungodly hour, I realized that the dream I was having was quite enjoyable. No, no... No babes in bikinis with breasts bouncing out of their tops, while delivering me ice cold beers. No, naked Nubians with palm fronds gently waving above me, offering me grapes and dates to snack on. I was in high school. As a teacher. An English teacher to be more precise. Teaching and trying to instill my love of reading to a class of high school students.
The d00d family has been known to produce some teachers. I can think of three uncles that taught from Dad's side. From both sides, many were Pastors, Ministers, missionaries of one type or another, and Sunday School volunteer teachers. Many were some kind of combination of several of these titles. So it is no huge surprise that at one time in my life I wanted to be a teacher. A Professor, no less, of English Literature. I kept that little dream alive inside until my senior year of high school, and the one class that changed that idea. English Literature.
My senior year I needed only four credits to graduate. Of those four, only two of the classes were mandatory: Government and English. The junior year we had studied U.S. Literature, so it was no surprise that senior year would cover English Lit. I was excited! This is something that I had been waiting for! There were several teachers that taught this class (I think 4) and I ended up with Ms. B. Rumored for at least the prior three years, as being one of the worst teachers to get assigned class with due to her hard grading scale, what was acceptable in class, etc. That one teacher that puts up with nothing. And I will admit, I was a little bit of a sarcastic juvenile... not the class clown, but openly sarcastic in class.... often. (RM, you may learn something about me!)
Needless to say, the year started off just as well as one can imagine. I spent some time in the hallway, excluded from class, with the "after-class talk" from teacher. But my homework was always done. I was ahead of the class in any reading we were required to do. I had the highest grade in the class... why wouldn't I? I loved this stuff! Then came the Spring... and a thesis paper. Yes the biggest paper we as high schoolers probably would ever write, and it made up 90% of our whole spring semester. I was ready! I have been waiting this day!
Obviously the topic would be on an English author/poet/playwright - cool! A biographical paper! No. It is to be a critical analysis of any work that the author being assigned to us had composed. We were to bring out three critical points in any work from one author - which was being assigned to us - by drawing the name from a hat. From my memories of that day, I still say it was rigged. Ms. B. put several small slips of paper in the hat, explained each contained the name of one author. There were no duplicates, so no one was going to be able to share work. We would spend library time, to look up sources of information, and of course, lots of time building our thesis, which was being graded in stages. Ms. B. announced that drawing would be by seating rows, except for me. I was to be the last to draw a paper. (See, I told you it was rigged, but my young mind did not realize this).
Each student drew a name and announced it to the class. Most of them we had talked about, if not read some of their work, so there was not problems of having to read someone's large manuscript prior to at least knowing one piece of written work they had completed. At last it was my turn, and before I could go up, Ms. B. announced that I would be doing my paper on Bram Stoker.
I recall the sly, seemingly sinister smile that played across her 45+ year old face; the glint of malice and satisfaction of getting back at a sarcastic teen that had been a mouthy little troublemaker for at least half the year. As I looked at Ms. B. and what appeared to be her "gloating look", out of the corner of my eye I see students kind of look at each other....questioning who is Bram Stoker? Being the smart-ass kid I was (and maybe still am a bit) I gave Ms. B. my best Clint Eastwood smile, and said, "Sounds like an easy paper to me. I've read Dracula twice already." Her smile faltered just a bit, and her eyes showed signs of sadness, that maybe I had taken some of the "wind" from her "sails". But life went on.
I spent days going through tome after tome of information on Stoker. If I found any information at all, it was only related to Dracula, though there were supposedly a couple smaller works he had done as well. Creating a critical analysis was not going to be easy if everything was only referring to his one book - that should make it easy, right? Not really. Even though I was living here in the Valley by then, there were some things that you weren't supposed to reference in your homework: sex was almost always prohibited, drinking (usually referring to alcohol, but could also include partaking of drugs - it was the "say no to drugs" era) and just smut in general. I cannot remember my complete thesis to this day, but it consisted of the three topics I was going to discuss: the use of blood as an aphrodisiac, the use of sex and virgins, and the third I don't remember, but it went just as far as the other two points.
The day we had to show our thesis statement for grade was interesting. As with seemingly everything since the start of the thesis paper, I was always last. Last to be called on for attendance, last to be called up to discuss where my progress is on the paper, etc. It was a small, petty thing Ms. B. did, seeming to be the teacher way of retaliation. I didn't care. When I presented the thesis, she brought up that maybe I could find some other points. I said no. All the sources provided by the school library, only pointed at Stoker's one work, and these were the only three things I could determine from that analysis in which to write my paper. 'Surely,' she would say, 'there has got to be newer works that provide other information.' I flat out told her, if there was, our school did not have them. I had no access to the main public library as it was 15 miles away. If everyone was to use the same available resources (school library) then this is what it would be. An eyeroll from her, a long sigh, and she nodded. I saw her right my grade (an A) for thesis creation. Then with that long look that only women can do, she turned to me and said, "But it will be on you to write this in such a way that it will not be a sex-driven piece of drivel, that will cost you a repeat of this grade, and my job." Literally, that's what I remember her saying..... but it was 30 years ago.
Needless to say, the weeks went on, and I wrote. I tore it up. I re-wrote. I tossed it away. I used a thesaurus for the first time ever in my life (I think). I wrote two copies, did the red pen edit on both. Scrapped them and wrote again. My grade did not suffer. I could always show work that the first paragraph was done in the time frame required, etc. It was just that the content and phrasing would change constantly. If Ms. B. ever noticed that change she never said. She always made me stand next to her while she read silently each addition I made to my paper. Then she would give me that look, and repeat that I knew what was on the line. Finally the due date came, and being called last yet again, I turned my paper in, smiling at Ms. B. with a confidence that only a brave kid could show. A Confidence that showed that it made no difference to me how it turned out, but if I was going down, I was taking her with me.
Life went on for the next two weeks. We had "busy work" during class, as Ms. B. read through the papers. Sometimes we could see her smile. Other times we would see that red pen come out and expressive hand movements as she noted some form of good/bad. I felt the true feeling of Dread as the 2-week period came to a close, and the date of grade reveal was upon us. Being last throughout that semester, I watched as each day thinking, is that the last paper (mine) to grade? How many red slashes will we see? Will I pass?
Finally the day arrived, and I, more than most in my class, felt the most anxiety about what this day would reveal. Ms. B. actually smiled as she addressed the class with the starting pleasantries. She was glad to see so much growth of knowledge in her class over the last year, and how great students we all were. Her eyes and smile met everyone as she spoke.... except me. She regaled stories of how in past years her students have written great papers, many on the same authors, and how some this year had brought out points she would never have suspected. At this point, I was pretty much feeling in the gutter. I knew it hadn't panned out... and now was I going to pass or not?
"So many good papers were written this year,' said Ms B. "But only one paper received a grade of A+. There are a good number of A's, and lower grades, in this stack before you, but only one made an A+, and I will read that one to the class." I sat slouched in my seat, my mind just kind of wandering, trying to figure out how bad this was going to be, when I hear the first sentence of my paper. As I sat up in surprise, I saw the slight smile and quick look Ms. B. sent my way over the top of the paper, as she continued reading. At the end, she mentioned something about not revealing who wrote the paper, and maybe some remembered I had Stoker, but it was the furthest thing from my mind at that time.
The rest of the class time was spent with her giving us "free time" and her walking around the room in random order, passing back our papers. Ms. B. never approached me, never gave my paper back, and never made eye contact the rest of the class period. As the bell rang, Ms. B. spoke out, asking for me to stay a minute after class. This had been a common off and on thing for the year, usually to chastise me for my outburst or whatever. Today was different.
Ms. B. spoke about how she had seen at the beginning of the year I was going to be a problem. The mouthiest kid in class, always had something to say about anything, especially if it went against what point she was making. But after seeing my first basic paper early in the year, knew it was because I was ahead of the class. There was no way for her to "push" me intellectually as we did the required material, as I had already seemed to know it all. She explained her intentional positioning me to the end of the list for everything, because I needed the least help. how she saved Stoker for me, because in her words, she had never had a student capable of finding anything to write, or at least to be able to stand up to the "system" and use what was given. She continuously commented on how the topics I was using to make sure I used them in the right way, not just to flagrantly say them to say them, but to truly make them part of the reason, and why they had to be used. Ms. B. showed me my paper, with the "A+" in bright red at the top, then surprised me even more, and asked if she could keep my paper, to use for following years as an example. How do you say no to that, especially after that little talk?
Over the past 30 years since that one year, I have thought about Ms. B. quite a bit. And I know this all sounds like that feel-good movie you see on Disney, but it is true. And I have seen similar things happen in real-life where all it takes is one person to see someone's potential, and drive them to it. Especially when they don't even see it themselves. My dream changed that year. If I were going to teach, it was going to be high school... not some professor at some small college. And though that part of my dream has not come true (well, as of right now anyways) it is always here with me...because of a high school English Literature teacher.
