Memoir of a Preppie: She Cared

Irony comes around only so often, but when it comes, it is memorable. Irony came to me one day when my eleventh grade English teacher hit me in front of the entire class. I felt no pain, nor trauma, nor shame from her assault, but I felt something that changed my unruly, adolescent attitude and behavior. More importantly, as I reflect on that act and how it changed not only my behavior, attitude, and self-image in those times so long ago, I recognize that that act has become a part of who I am, today.

The Event

I entered the eleventh grade a proud straight-F student. I didn’t need to learn what they —the people with authority— wanted to teach me. Anyway, nobody else cared whether I learned anything or not. Caring goes beyond nagging. Everyone nagged, “You better change your attitude, young man!”, but nobody cared.  My mom only wanted me to stay out of juvy (juvenile detention center).  My probation officer only demanded that I attend my assigned classes. Otherwise, I would be in violation of the terms of my probations. So,  I didn’t need to learn. I just needed to attend class to stay out of juvy. So, my practice was to go to class, sit in the back of the room, and keep a low profile. Since I had no plan to do any academic work, I had no need for books, notebooks, or even pens or pencils. I needed nothing except the shirt on my back.

Somehow, I was placed in an English class full of preppies—students preparing for college. I was not a preppie. In fact, I had no plans, at all. Like everybody else in my life, I did not care. So, I had no interest in academic endeavors.

I don’t remember whether it was the first, second, or third class of the first semester, but it was the first day I remember of the class. I was sitting in the back of class, wearing a short sleeve shirt and bell bottom blue jeans, like always. My shaggy hair was starting to grow long like I was trying to look like a hippie. I remember the teacher ordering the preppies to write something. They all complied. With the class so silent and peaceful, so I fell into a daydreaming, like always. Then I noticed the teacher slowly walking up and down the aisles, suspiciously policing the preppies to assure complete compliance with her writing orders. As I leaned back in my chair with my hands resting on the desk, she approached my desk, stopped, looked down at me with a stern look on her face, and grumbled, “Why aren’t you writing?” “Huh! I don’t got a pencil”, I uttered. With her right hand, she backhanded me, barely hitting my upper arm with the tips of her fingers. It tickled as I remember, but it shocked me. “Don’t ever come to my class without a pencil!”, she scolded. I could feel all the students rubbernecking to learn what was happening. The teacher then turned around and stomped back up the aisle to the front of the class.  As she turned her back and scurried away, I noticed her dress as she stomped away, and how perfectly it brought the shape and beauty of her figure to life—something I would not normally notice on a woman about the same age as my mother and my probation officer.  She grabbed a pencil and piece of paper from her desk, stomped back to my desk, and stared down at me with the prettiest angry eyes I had ever seen in my entire 16 years of life. Crack! She slammed the pencil and piece of paper down on my desk so hard I could feel it vibrate. “Now, Write!”  She then returned to her desk.

I don’t remember what I wrote, but I wrote. As the class came to an end, and all the preppies were handing in their writing assignments, I approached the teacher sitting at her desk and handed her my writing assignment and the pencil she loaned me. She looked up at me with her pretty, angry eyes, “Never come to my class without a pencil!”.  She grabbed my paper but not the pencil.

Every day I attended that class, I would bring that pencil and at least one piece of paper folded up and stuffed in my back pocket. The structure of the class was such that the teacher would lecture the students about grammar and syntax and then have the students write a piece, using the techniques she taught in the lecture.  I began to pay attention to her lessons as she strode back and forth in front of the chalkboard, circling phrases and underlining clauses while explaining so eloquently how they all work together to make the sentence complete.

She wore a different dress every day, but they all draped down to her knees with flounces following her as she paced back and forth, talking and teaching about noun phrases, dangling modifiers, and all those tricks to make words come to life. Although the bouffant style of her strawberry blonde hair made her look a little too much like a warmongering prime minister (Margret Thatcher), and her makeup was way too high maintenance for a wannabe hippie like me, I must admit that I was starting to develop a teenage crush for the old lady. Maybe, that is why my memory is so meaningful and episodic.

The daily routine was always the same. She would walk and talk and teach and tease me until I wanted to learn how to teach. I would listen and learn and wander aloud as if I was a teenager in love. Then I would write her a note, something like, “If you begin a complex sentence with the subordinate clause, then you must separate the subordinate clause from the independent clause with a comma. However, you do not need a comma if you begin the complex sentence with the independent clause.” Then came the end of class when I would take my note to her, take a big breath of her sweet perfume, and hand her my note, but I would keep my pencil.

She never scolded nor grumbled at me after that one day she hit me. I guess I complied with her demands. I remember learning the lessons she taught, but the most important lesson she taught me in that class was that somebody cared.

I can understand why she would be so angry at a student who would come to a prep class unprepared. She didn’t like the idea that I didn’t care. Good teachers teach students who know they want to learn. Great teachers teach students who don’t know nor care. I didn’t care because nobody else cared whether I learned or not. She cared, and so I cared.

She did not hurt nor scare me. I had been through some tough times, and a pretty women my mother’s age would not threaten me. But she changed my attitude at least for a while, and her memory has made me realize that I would not be who I am if she did not care.

Conclusion

I do not contend that I can write like an expert. Perhaps, my words, phrases, sentences, and paragraphs may not shove me in front of the spotlight of the literary hall of fame. Maybe my style of writing fails to fulfill the expectations of those whose demand for eloquent prose and pristine poetry is too much for me to handle. I don’t care if nobody ever puts music to my poems and makes the whole world sing along.  I don’t expect to ever win a noble prize in literature nor become a poet laureate. My fans will probably always be few and far away. My name will never end up on a star on a dirty boulevard sidewalk for the whole world to trample on. And I may never reach my lifelong goal of writing the perfect piece of art that will inspire the whole wide world to finally let go of our egos and learn to live and love in peace, but I am prepared to give it a try because she cared.