In no particular order.
1) John Kenny, 5th grade Social Studies/History. You became my hero on the first day of class, when you pointed to the smoke detector in the ceiling of your classroom and announced that you'd fitted it with a cootie detector. And then, to drive home the point, you pointed out that it hadn't gone off yet, and hence, nobody in this class had cooties. So anyone who accused another student of having cooties was a bold-faced liar. You taught American history with so much love, you sweated and cried through the unit on slavery, which you'd taught 25 times by then. On cold days, or hot days, or days when we just couldn't pay attention, you gathered us on the big rug and red out loud to us. You didn't even mind when I recited the book along with you. Your jokes were sarcastic, dry, plentiful, and just on the border of inappropriate. I wish I knew what had happened to you.
2) Donna Mejia, college, Middle Eastern Dance/Tribal Fusion. You lead by example, and do it so well, it was as if you were telling me not to give up on this dance form. But of course, you weren't. You don't work that way. In the beginning, I was looking so hard for that extra attention, that little whisper of encouragement, and it never came. I got the same silence as every other student, the same lectures, the same level of patience. You were only willing to celebrate me when I was willing to celebrate myself first - and your smile was genuine when you cried, "Look at you, lady! That *is* a perfect maya" At the very end of school, after I'd written the poem that proved I finally understood what you'd been teaching all along, you told me you were going to keep an eye on my doings. I wish we were in touch. I wish you were still my teacher.
3) Dee Matthews, post-college, Poetry. I call you teacher to your face, with good reason. You made me believe in the power of positive feedback again, called each woman in our workshop to rise to her feet and spit as hard as she could. Later, in another place, at another time, I watched one of your own pieces break you down as you struggled to get through it in the privacy of a messy hotel room. I was so honored to be able to witness that, that you opened yourself up and let me see some of the mess.
4) Jean DeRosa, middle school, Social Studies/History. You were the first person who ever called me Woman! You gave me extra credit for drawing political cartoons satirizing our school on the backs of my history tests. You sat with me for hours after school, letting me talk about all the craziness and offering nods and concerned faces. In class debates, you always put me on the side I disagreed with. You didn't put up with bullshit, not from me, not from anyone. You threw an essay in my face once, and told me you wouldn't take it until I could look you square in the eye and tell you it was my best work. You read my poems. You gave me my only major acting role and laughed through rehearsals. You came to Passover at our house one year, and sang Go Down Moses before I knew why we weren't supposed to, but damn, you have a good voice. I hear you're still there, in my elementary school, kicking ass.
5) Marisa Januzzi, high school junior, English. You were my everything - my teacher, adviser to the gay/straight alliance we started, employer (when I babysat your kids), cheerleader, mentor, and eventually, friend. I've tried to write poems about you, unsuccessfully. You let me get away with bloody murder when I was your student. I turned in my final paper the day after school ended. I lived in your classroom. You once told me "don't give up digging, just because you've discovered a famous literary critic in your hole - be glad for the company and see if you can get deeper." You wrote me a three page recommendation letter for college. The only times I see you now are when I show up at your house uninvited with a bagful of apples and make pie with your children. I have daydreams about opening a school with you, and watching your kids grow up. And gardening. And cooking.
6) Bill Oram, college, Shakespeare and Milton. You gentle old bear. In all honesty, I doubt we were that special to each other. You keep an iron guard on your personal life, at least with me, but still happily let me tantz into your office whenever you had a moment. Your old Bess was usually there too, all bone and soft ears, gently nuzzling whatever visitors you had. You listened to my poems, took me seriously, and gently poked my essays. You read Shakespeare out loud in class, beautifully, powerfully. In fact, your readings show just how much you usually hide of yourself from the universe. And then, when the other professor was sick and you took over my Milton class - just like that. As though there were nothing you'd rather do than discuss Paradise Lost at nine in the morning. And for you, I wrote the very best paper I wrote as an undergrad. So good, in fact, that I spent a whole second semester working on it, like a thesis, even after you'd given it an A. And that's your way. Gentle. Subtle. Genius.
And there are others: Angela Rodin, who was so patient with my professed hatred for science. Floyd Cheung, who gave me the best semester-long homework assignment - a quote book. Justin Cammy, who demanded vigor, rigor, humor and stubbornness. Alexandra Drazniowsky, who imparted a love of European history like only a Russian can. Laurie Kneeheart, who never tried to make me play with Barbies.
And you? What teachers have shaped you?
1) John Kenny, 5th grade Social Studies/History. You became my hero on the first day of class, when you pointed to the smoke detector in the ceiling of your classroom and announced that you'd fitted it with a cootie detector. And then, to drive home the point, you pointed out that it hadn't gone off yet, and hence, nobody in this class had cooties. So anyone who accused another student of having cooties was a bold-faced liar. You taught American history with so much love, you sweated and cried through the unit on slavery, which you'd taught 25 times by then. On cold days, or hot days, or days when we just couldn't pay attention, you gathered us on the big rug and red out loud to us. You didn't even mind when I recited the book along with you. Your jokes were sarcastic, dry, plentiful, and just on the border of inappropriate. I wish I knew what had happened to you.
2) Donna Mejia, college, Middle Eastern Dance/Tribal Fusion. You lead by example, and do it so well, it was as if you were telling me not to give up on this dance form. But of course, you weren't. You don't work that way. In the beginning, I was looking so hard for that extra attention, that little whisper of encouragement, and it never came. I got the same silence as every other student, the same lectures, the same level of patience. You were only willing to celebrate me when I was willing to celebrate myself first - and your smile was genuine when you cried, "Look at you, lady! That *is* a perfect maya" At the very end of school, after I'd written the poem that proved I finally understood what you'd been teaching all along, you told me you were going to keep an eye on my doings. I wish we were in touch. I wish you were still my teacher.
3) Dee Matthews, post-college, Poetry. I call you teacher to your face, with good reason. You made me believe in the power of positive feedback again, called each woman in our workshop to rise to her feet and spit as hard as she could. Later, in another place, at another time, I watched one of your own pieces break you down as you struggled to get through it in the privacy of a messy hotel room. I was so honored to be able to witness that, that you opened yourself up and let me see some of the mess.
4) Jean DeRosa, middle school, Social Studies/History. You were the first person who ever called me Woman! You gave me extra credit for drawing political cartoons satirizing our school on the backs of my history tests. You sat with me for hours after school, letting me talk about all the craziness and offering nods and concerned faces. In class debates, you always put me on the side I disagreed with. You didn't put up with bullshit, not from me, not from anyone. You threw an essay in my face once, and told me you wouldn't take it until I could look you square in the eye and tell you it was my best work. You read my poems. You gave me my only major acting role and laughed through rehearsals. You came to Passover at our house one year, and sang Go Down Moses before I knew why we weren't supposed to, but damn, you have a good voice. I hear you're still there, in my elementary school, kicking ass.
5) Marisa Januzzi, high school junior, English. You were my everything - my teacher, adviser to the gay/straight alliance we started, employer (when I babysat your kids), cheerleader, mentor, and eventually, friend. I've tried to write poems about you, unsuccessfully. You let me get away with bloody murder when I was your student. I turned in my final paper the day after school ended. I lived in your classroom. You once told me "don't give up digging, just because you've discovered a famous literary critic in your hole - be glad for the company and see if you can get deeper." You wrote me a three page recommendation letter for college. The only times I see you now are when I show up at your house uninvited with a bagful of apples and make pie with your children. I have daydreams about opening a school with you, and watching your kids grow up. And gardening. And cooking.
6) Bill Oram, college, Shakespeare and Milton. You gentle old bear. In all honesty, I doubt we were that special to each other. You keep an iron guard on your personal life, at least with me, but still happily let me tantz into your office whenever you had a moment. Your old Bess was usually there too, all bone and soft ears, gently nuzzling whatever visitors you had. You listened to my poems, took me seriously, and gently poked my essays. You read Shakespeare out loud in class, beautifully, powerfully. In fact, your readings show just how much you usually hide of yourself from the universe. And then, when the other professor was sick and you took over my Milton class - just like that. As though there were nothing you'd rather do than discuss Paradise Lost at nine in the morning. And for you, I wrote the very best paper I wrote as an undergrad. So good, in fact, that I spent a whole second semester working on it, like a thesis, even after you'd given it an A. And that's your way. Gentle. Subtle. Genius.
And there are others: Angela Rodin, who was so patient with my professed hatred for science. Floyd Cheung, who gave me the best semester-long homework assignment - a quote book. Justin Cammy, who demanded vigor, rigor, humor and stubbornness. Alexandra Drazniowsky, who imparted a love of European history like only a Russian can. Laurie Kneeheart, who never tried to make me play with Barbies.
And you? What teachers have shaped you?
1 comment:
I'll post it on LJ soon!
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