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Read the first sentence of this Young Writer's Program campaign and have to write something.
In my elementary school, the head teacher of the 6th grade teachers was an imposing man. Not that he was abnormally LARGE, but he had a powerful barking voice and a reputation for not suffering fools. He'd been in the Army.* He even looked eerily like Hulk Hogan, a detail that actually meant something to kids at that point in history, which he'd occasionally exploit for cheap celebrity appearances at assemblies.
As an abnormally timid child, I wanted nothing to do with him. I was glad, then, that I KNEW I wouldn't have him for class. Our school had an unadvertised practice of sorting kids for reading and math classes strictly, fastest to slowest, and I was always in the very fastest classes. Mr. Rodgers, everyone knew, only taught the SECOND-fastest 6th grade Reading class.
Until, naturally, MY sixth grade year, when the top two Reading classes were resorted into two equal advanced-track levels. There I was in Mr. Rodgers' classroom after all.
It was clear he really wouldn't suffer fools. But he also only used that bark as a last resort. Most of the time he kept his voice gentle, good-humored. He gladly advertised his fannishness for the Three Stooges and PeeWee Herman. He liked to laugh, and to make us laugh, and it was the good sort of laughter-- the laughing WITH laugh. He'd laugh for being happy.
Most importantly, he'd laugh whenever I wrote something that I meant to be funny. He appreciated it.
Each week we had to write our spelling words in sentences, and because I was a writer-geek child, I did my very best to link every one of those sentences into a story. Mr. Rodgers loved that. Nearly every week he'd ask me to read my "story" to the class, and because I was always one of those weird shy people who came to life when asked to actually PERFORM,** I always did happily. Helped, I think, because he always listened with a huge smile, punctuated with a nod or a chuckle.
He'd do the same for other kids, sometimes, so I knew it wasn't just some weird teacher's-pet thing he had for me. It was a genuine thrill in seeing us create good things. Which pleased me even more, that, as far as I could tell, I was thrilling him most often.
I've probably said this before, but the one academic thing I've never been good at was getting my homework done.*** But only Mr. Rodgers ever scolded me for it in THESE words: "I expect much better from you." I couldn't just brush that one off like I could the "You need to be more responsible!"s!
So eventually he became the first adult outside my family who ever read the "books" I wrote on my own time. I waited impatiently over the course of a week or so for him to finish, though having since been on the other side of The Teacher's Desk it's a wonder he finished as quickly as he did. I think part of me hoped for a loud, "This is brilliant! Let's get it published!" so I was a little let down when the only feedback I got for the whole 70-some pages**** was a post-it note. But it said, "This is good. It made me smile. Keep writing, Amy!"
Sometime in my early adulthood he had a stroke, but I saw him in passing just a few years later while I was subbing at my old elementary school-- hobbling through the halls with a cane, relying on student teachers to do the heavy stuff, but still, THERE, unwilling to give up inspiring kids to learn and create. He did finally retire a few years back, and I asked around among my old classmates on Facebook but nobody seems to have heard anything about how he's doing now or even if he's still alive. A couple months back I saw a Write a Letter to Thank a Teacher! thing for Teacher Appreciation Week or something, and I thought about writing this then. But a letter to someone whom no one seems to know if he's even alive?
Well, why not. That's what blogs are for.
Here's to the teachers who encourage, everywhere.
---
*Or it could have been that he actually WAS, still, in the National Guard, but it's hard to tell with kid-rumors.
**Note: today I have a job where I frequently read aloud in front of a highly-opinionated audience. I love that part. The most terrifying part of my job is when I have to MAKE PHONE CALLS. There are many different KINDS of social anxiety, you know!
***This is still hard as a parent. Except now it's not MY homework.
****Handwritten by a kid, with illustrations. Not 70 double-spaced typewritten pages. Still.
In my elementary school, the head teacher of the 6th grade teachers was an imposing man. Not that he was abnormally LARGE, but he had a powerful barking voice and a reputation for not suffering fools. He'd been in the Army.* He even looked eerily like Hulk Hogan, a detail that actually meant something to kids at that point in history, which he'd occasionally exploit for cheap celebrity appearances at assemblies.
As an abnormally timid child, I wanted nothing to do with him. I was glad, then, that I KNEW I wouldn't have him for class. Our school had an unadvertised practice of sorting kids for reading and math classes strictly, fastest to slowest, and I was always in the very fastest classes. Mr. Rodgers, everyone knew, only taught the SECOND-fastest 6th grade Reading class.
Until, naturally, MY sixth grade year, when the top two Reading classes were resorted into two equal advanced-track levels. There I was in Mr. Rodgers' classroom after all.
It was clear he really wouldn't suffer fools. But he also only used that bark as a last resort. Most of the time he kept his voice gentle, good-humored. He gladly advertised his fannishness for the Three Stooges and PeeWee Herman. He liked to laugh, and to make us laugh, and it was the good sort of laughter-- the laughing WITH laugh. He'd laugh for being happy.
Most importantly, he'd laugh whenever I wrote something that I meant to be funny. He appreciated it.
Each week we had to write our spelling words in sentences, and because I was a writer-geek child, I did my very best to link every one of those sentences into a story. Mr. Rodgers loved that. Nearly every week he'd ask me to read my "story" to the class, and because I was always one of those weird shy people who came to life when asked to actually PERFORM,** I always did happily. Helped, I think, because he always listened with a huge smile, punctuated with a nod or a chuckle.
He'd do the same for other kids, sometimes, so I knew it wasn't just some weird teacher's-pet thing he had for me. It was a genuine thrill in seeing us create good things. Which pleased me even more, that, as far as I could tell, I was thrilling him most often.
I've probably said this before, but the one academic thing I've never been good at was getting my homework done.*** But only Mr. Rodgers ever scolded me for it in THESE words: "I expect much better from you." I couldn't just brush that one off like I could the "You need to be more responsible!"s!
So eventually he became the first adult outside my family who ever read the "books" I wrote on my own time. I waited impatiently over the course of a week or so for him to finish, though having since been on the other side of The Teacher's Desk it's a wonder he finished as quickly as he did. I think part of me hoped for a loud, "This is brilliant! Let's get it published!" so I was a little let down when the only feedback I got for the whole 70-some pages**** was a post-it note. But it said, "This is good. It made me smile. Keep writing, Amy!"
Sometime in my early adulthood he had a stroke, but I saw him in passing just a few years later while I was subbing at my old elementary school-- hobbling through the halls with a cane, relying on student teachers to do the heavy stuff, but still, THERE, unwilling to give up inspiring kids to learn and create. He did finally retire a few years back, and I asked around among my old classmates on Facebook but nobody seems to have heard anything about how he's doing now or even if he's still alive. A couple months back I saw a Write a Letter to Thank a Teacher! thing for Teacher Appreciation Week or something, and I thought about writing this then. But a letter to someone whom no one seems to know if he's even alive?
Well, why not. That's what blogs are for.
Here's to the teachers who encourage, everywhere.
---
*Or it could have been that he actually WAS, still, in the National Guard, but it's hard to tell with kid-rumors.
**Note: today I have a job where I frequently read aloud in front of a highly-opinionated audience. I love that part. The most terrifying part of my job is when I have to MAKE PHONE CALLS. There are many different KINDS of social anxiety, you know!
***This is still hard as a parent. Except now it's not MY homework.
****Handwritten by a kid, with illustrations. Not 70 double-spaced typewritten pages. Still.
