Yet, as I reflected on how much it means when students reach out, I became slightly guilt-stricken. I was basking in my teacher good-mojo-vibes for a bit and then thought, "Whoa, lady. Time to spill it." Time to actually come clean to the teacher who continues to provide lessons, insight, and humor to my life on a regular basis.
To be honest, the first week or so, my twelfth-grade English teacher scared me. She was feisty, intense, wicked-smart, and it was clear that she was in charge. Not in a creepy-dictator-ish way, but in an immediately-gain-your-respect way. Mrs. Michaels had this literature-journey under control...welcome and enjoy the ride!
Passionate to the core about what we were reading, Mrs. Michaels also exuded another passion. Us. Me. Students. I will attest to the concreteness of this in a moment, but there were less-obvious indicators to me as a teenager than there are now. You see, when I travel down the hallways of Cimarron-Memorial High School in my memories, I picture exactly where her room was. I see the decorations. I remember our work displayed. I know where I sat. I may not be able to tell you what I had for breakfast yesterday, but I can tell you EXACTLY where the motion-sensor for the lights was in that room (and if we all sat very still for a few moments, the lights would go out and we would all stand and wave wildly around in an exaggerated manner). I have vivid recollections because it mattered. I mattered. That room was a safe, fun, challenging place where I never knew what was going to happen next- but I knew I was in good hands.
Sure, there were the literature regulars. We groaned during A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (sorry, James Joyce), grieved through One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (well-done, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn), chuckled when we finally understood Waiting for Godot (fist-bump, Samuel Beckett), and loathed Jude the Obscure until we LOVED it (you almost lost me at the beginning, Thomas Hardy...glad we hung in there!). In Mrs. Michaels' class, though, we didn't read the book; we experienced it. The activities in class weren't designed to check a box that she had covered the material. She wanted us to discuss, act, relate, analyze, feel, apply, and remember. And I do remember. I remember it fondly. It mattered. I mattered.
Dynamic classroom teacher? Absolutely! What separated Mrs. Michaels, though, was that she treated us as valued individuals. We chose to eat lunch in her room and chat. We sought her advice on all those teenage issues we were SURE would be our demise (think prom-dress drama). She not only made the time, but treated us with dignity. We convened at her own home to cram for AP exams. She called my house to check on me when I was out sick for a few days. We saw her beam with tears in her eyes at graduation. Mrs. Michaels wanted the best for us. Each of us. We mattered. I mattered.
As an adult, I've had the honor of Mrs. Michaels keeping in touch with me. Truth be told, I don't let her know how often she crosses my mind. As we share posts, anecdotes, and photos, I am still in awe at how much I learn from her- and strive to be the person she is. Mrs. Michaels did not teach twelfth-grade English. Mrs. Michaels taught students. This student smirks out of the blue at some wonderful high school memories in her class. This student still has "B.R." pop in her mind when she flakes out (yeah...inside joke). This student knows she would be a different person having never met Mrs. Michaels. This student mattered.
Happy Teacher Appreciation to all! Especially to my favorite, Judy Michaels (and I will NEVER really feel comfortable calling her "Judy" - regardless of the time that passes!).
