An Ode to my English Teachers

I always knew that my friends enjoyed high school, and I always knew that I never understood why. I couldn’t stand that place. All those apathetic kids just doing things because “it looks good on my college application.” Although I wasn’t in the top of my class, or maybe the brightest student, no one could say I wasn’t hard working. I went to school to learn.

I loved going to class, even the boring (what I may now look at as challenging) ones. I remember straining through geometry, chemistry and physics, and working extra hard in our Algebra II class so I didn’t disappoint our hard working teacher who got the short end of the stick from his students. (Saying someone’s wife is a mail-order bride simply because he is an awkward, bald man is cruel.) And even though I might have gone to some of these classes for the pure entertainment I received from our wacky teachers (why must chemistry teachers always personify atom particles?), I looked forward to my English and yearbook classes every day.

I remember on that first day freshman year. Walking into that English class and seeing our wiry, immaculately kept teacher, her long hair pulled into a knot and her bony fingers manicured to perfection. “Fantastic,” I sarcastically thought to myself. I grew to love her so much that I purposely made my schedule sophomore year to include both her and my yearbook class. Nothing else mattered (except a somewhat decent math teacher so I could pass the class and learn something. What’s with math teachers anyway? I should save this for another blog). That woman taught me how to write. She forced us to see that the details of writing were the finer points of writing; once I had my thoughts and sentences down I had to make sure each period, comma, colon and apostrophe was in its proper place. And for this I admired her. In fact, I hated high school so much and couldn’t wait to get out of there that I was the only one who didn’t cry at senior events or graduation. But when she caught me in the hall the second to last day of school her comment made me cry. “So soon to go?” was all she said.

While the passion for writing (and Shakespeare) came my freshman and sophomore years, my passion for reading came next. Junior year was filled with what still remains as some of my most favorite literature. Street Car Named Desire has to be one of the best dramas I ever read in high school (other than Mr. Shakespeare, of course. Even after teaching it four times, I still love Romeo and Juliet), and I know that my love for that play grew from the guidance of my teacher. I love that play so much that I often fight with my colleagues about teaching Miller over Williams. And each day we entered that classroom, there was a provocative quote or tidbit on the board just for us to share a piece of our minds. No one had ever asked me, a teenager, what I had thought about such things. Having a place to organize my opinions was a novel idea for me, and an experience that I have often brought to my students who have a very hard time thinking outside the box.

Senior year was when I told my mother that I wanted to teach senior English some day. Now I’m not as interested in those seniors, but what drew me to that year in particular was the literature. “Metamorphosis” and The Stranger truly drew me in. The philosophies that lay behind those books just boggled my mind. What I loved most about my English teacher was her passion for what she taught; she was not ashamed of loving literature and appreciating good writing, and she allowed a space in the classroom for creativity, something that I find we now have very little space for.

But most of all there was yearbook. Mr. C was by far my favorite teacher, and at the end of the day, yearbook was why I was absent maybe twice in my entire high school career. That class just kept me coming back for more. It was a space to showcase my writing and creativity all bundled into one. I began to develop an eye for photography, was able to sharpen my design skills, and learned how to be a more positive, effective leader. I could take the rigor and joy of writing and combine them into one in that class. And our style guide still sticks with me today; it is not just the rules of journalistic writing, it has become a way of thinking. That class pushed my writing not just to be specific and creative, but to be professional. And it is to Mr. C that I feel forever indebted as I have been able to follow in his footsteps, along with my other English teachers, to pass along the joy of both reading and writing.