Mary McDonald peeked at me over the top of her glasses. Do all teachers do that...? Do I? 

“Go ahead, ask your questions, Rhonda.”

Mary settled onto the couch of the 3rd floor teacher’s lounge. It was where she and I spent most of our conference period every day. She was a well-seasoned, generously-shaped, black woman with more wisdom than stamina. Suffering from an advanced stage cancer, she needed rest as much as she needed my companionship.

I looked at the formidable list provided me by my instructors. Preparing to ask my first question, I leaned forward. I couldn’t wait to hear her answer to each we had time for.

Mary, called Micky D by many students, had already taught me a lot since I had come to student teach in her science class. Some of the pearls of wisdom she shared fell under the category of simple advice, like to always wear dresses with pockets, or to never leave the class unattended, but other things were deeper and more valuable. It was these bits of advice I hoped to draw out of her with the list.

I cleared my throat. "What is the one thing you feel is most important for me to know as a future teacher?”

Mary smiled and glanced over her glasses again. She granted me a wink before closing weary eyes.

“First,” she began, “always eat in the cafeteria. It endears the staff to you. Tell them it’s good whether it is or not, and they’ll pile food on your plate everytime.”

“Okay,” I said. It wasn’t quite the answer I expected, but I wrote it down. “Eat in the cafeteria. Got it.”

“That’s also where you pick up the best gossip.” Mary opened her brown eyes, a hint of sparkle chasing away fatigue. 

“Gossip,” I repeated. I put the word in parentheses beside my previous note. “Is there anything else you want me to add?”

“Yes, never hang out in the regular teacher’s lounge, you know, the one on the first floor where a bunch of people gather at lunch. All they do is gripe. The good stuff, information you can use, you hear from teachers and students as they interact.”

“And that’s in the cafeteria.”

“Yes.”

"Okay, thank you.”

I started to ask another question, but Mary’s eyes closed and her breathing grew soft and even. I rested my notepad on my lap and leaned my head back against the overstuffed chair. With the hypnotic breathing of my mentor, my thoughts returned to the beginning of my journey.

I had started as a Research Technician at UT Health Science Center, Dallas in a biochemistry lab. I enjoyed my time there, but had really wanted to go into healthcare. After two years, I left for nursing school.

I was a year away from graduation on a full scholarship when my uncle, a teacher in Houston, talked me into applying for an innovative program designed to alleviate Houston’s teacher shortage. They planned to accept 2,000 applicants into their Alternative Certification program, and out of that number, 200 would be chosen.

I thought, what the heck, it was a long shot. I already had a husband and a child at this point and was kind of tired of going to school. But, did I really want to become a teacher? I mean, they were the enemy, right? 

I heard a gentle chuckle. “I thought you were going to ask me more questions. You’re sleeping on the job.”

I sat upright and shook the cobwebs out. “I’m sorry.” I looked at my list again and hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“These questions are good, but they don’t help me find out what I really need to know."

"Then ask what's on your mind."

"How can I ever reach inner-city kids the way you do?”

Mary worked herself into a sitting position. “Rhonda, they’ll work for you no matter what color your skin is, or where you come from, if you respect them. Just because I’m black, it was never guaranteed they’d listen to me. I had to take each kid as an individual. 

“Let them know you care about them and their worlds. That’s the main reason I told you to eat in the cafeteria. It’s not just about the food. It’s more about the stories.”

“Oh, I see!” And I did see. I put my list of questions aside. I could fill them in later.

“One more thing,” she said. “When they give you nicknames like Mickey D, it doesn’t mean they disrespect you. It means you’re accepted, and no amount of questions on a paper can earn you that.”

I smiled and waited as she rose tentatively to her feet. Once stabilized, she nodded. She was okay and ready to go on. So was I.

Author Notes

A special thanks for the artwork, the classroom Esherite series by Renate-Bertodi on FanArtReview. Mary McDonald passed away the next school year. I was working at a different High School in Houston at the time, but have mourned her loss even until now. My journey in teaching began longer ago than I care to remember, but suffice it to say women wore dresses and men wore suits with ties. There were no such things as casual Fridays, and the only time you ever wore jeans was at football games, which, in Texas, meant every Friday night. The Alternative Certification program was piloted in 1985 by the Houston Independent School District in Texas. For the maiden class, we were paid as full time teachers from the day we started. We spent the summer in an intense program of training, then were sent out to district schools as Interns. We were given many tasks as such. Some immediately filled empty teaching slots, some acted as full time subs, others given duties such as duty all day. For the rest of the year, we went to class for 4 hours every Monday night, then were given teacher certification tests at the end of the year. It was then, and still is, a great way to give people a chance to join the profession I was placed as a student teacher/shadow of a lovely teacher suffering from cancer. I only stayed half a year before I got a job at another school that needed a full time science teacher. They got another intern to be with Mary. I still kept in touch.

My friend, Marjory and I met twenty-four years ago and, as it often happens, it all came down to chance. I had just moved up to Scotland from England and I was looking for a job. After a few difficult months, I finally clinched one with Hilton Hotels. They wanted people with language skills and I could provide that. So I was hired.

So far so good. I fairly quickly learned the ins and outs of my new job, and I soon settled into a routine. At lunchtime, I usually went out to a deli I had found nearby, bringing back a homemade sandwich and a salad.

It was a couple of months into my new employment that I went out for a takeaway salad with some chicken in it. As usual, I brought it back to the recreation room at my work place and I looked forward to my humble meal. I had just taken a mouthful when a tall woman suddenly appeared, asking if she could sit at my table.

I indicated that she would be welcome to do so, frantically chewing my food so I could actually speak to her. I swallowed and washed down the remnants of my food with some water from my bottle.

She was roughly my age, or so I estimated and she seemed keen to talk. And did we talk. In the half hour I had left of my break, I learned she was the deputy head of her school for disabled children.

She adored what she was doing and her love for her charges was evident. I asked what she could possibly be doing at the Hilton Hotels when she was so obviously a teacher and had absolutely nothing to do with that side of the world.

Her response was quite a surprise and a revelation to me. By law, the heads and deputy heads had to go out in the 'real business world' so they could pass it on to their pupils. Now, that was interesting.

A quick look at my watch revealed that I was quickly running out of time. We hurried on to exchange phone numbers and vowed that we would be in contact.

I thought I would give it a week before I would give her a ring but, to my pleasant surprise, she phoned me a couple of days later. We agreed to meet up for a meal, and that was the start of what was to become a firm friendship.

I was also to learn so much more about teaching and especially teaching disabled children and young adults. It was a world I knew next to nothing about and I was fascinated.

To be continued

Author Notes

Thanks a lot to cleo85 for the use of the artwork.

Chapter 6
Oprah's Acts of Kindness for Mom

By davisr (Rhonda)

In past poems and stories, I have told bits and pieces about my mother, and how it came about that she was the reason for Oprah's "Acts of Kindness" for teachers. Many have asked me to tell the entire story. First I'd like to tell you a little about my mom and her love for children.

 

My mother was an amazing woman who was married right out of college to a widowed man who had three little girls, 3, 4, and 5 years old. She put her teaching on hold to become a good mother to them and then had my three brothers and myself.

 

After all of us kids were married, she took a baby boy who was not properly cared for by the drug-addicted parents. My mom and dad would later get legal guardianship and raised him as their own. My father finished raising Ryan who was 14 at the time of my mother's death.

 

In 1993, the son whom my mother's heart had ached for so long, had contacted her, and her dreams would come true when she met him. His name was Roger and he was from Arizona.

 

She had been engaged to his dad when she first started college. He broke off the engagement and took off as soon as he heard that she was pregnant. Therefore, she was forced to give him up for adoption.  Thankfully,  God gave her some time with him before her 1995 death.  He had no siblings before now and was so incredibly happy that he found her.

 

In 1995, as her illness progressed, it seemed the couch had become her bed, as it was where she was most comfortable. Her time was near and pancreatic cancer had taken so much from this once vibrant woman, who only a year earlier was doing cartwheels on the trampoline with my kids.

 

I was now staying and caring for my mom around the clock and had promised to stay until the end. I talked on the phone with my husband and children daily. They stopped to see us once a week.

 

 We were about to watch the transcript from the Oprah show that Susan had brought home for her. The show usually never allowed one to leave the studio until the episode had aired, but for my mom they were making an exception. 

 

A few months earlier, the Oprah Show called and said my mom was being honored by one of her former students and asked if she would be a guest alongside Susan, who had written about her. I took the call and explained why that wasn't possible. They asked if I would go in her place, but I said I could not leave her.

 

While watching the show, I heard Susan describe herself back then as an overweight girl with insecurities. She claimed she had not always gotten the proper diet at home, so my mom would often stay after school and talk to her about nutrition and exercise with her.

 

 Susan told about many things her unselfish teacher did to help her. She knew Mrs Pick had seven kids at home and was thankful for the time she was giving her.

 

As I watched the video and listened to Susan tell her story, I suddenly remembered how at times I used to be jealous of my mother's students, who I knew she always cared for deeply.

 

Sue talked about having a jacket, but did not have a hat or gloves. Minnesota winter's windchill temps can reach minus 70 degrees F. She said one very cold day my mom went to her locker and gave Susan her own hat and gloves.

 Sue said she wondered why my mom never bought herself new ones after that, but realizes now with a family of nine, she most likely could not afford them.

 

Oprah listened very closely to what Susan had to say and by the time she was done talking, Oprah was crying. They did a closeup of her then, and she announced that if anyone out there in TV land had a Joyce Pick kind of teacher, they should write in and tell about them.  Then she said that she was naming "Acts of Kindness for Teachers," in honor of my mother. 

 

Mom told me it was indeed an honor. Yet, it was nothing compared to the one she knew she would receive on the day she would meet Jesus face to face, which sadly came too soon.

 

 At her wake, many of her former students spoke and sang their praises to her. Through it all I was given so many reasons to be proud of her!

 

But I must say, what truly made me the most proud was that I was her daughter and she was my mom!  

 

I only have one problem;  thanks to my wonderful mom and dad, when people ask me how many kids were in our family,

I can only answer,  "Well, that depends!" 

Author Notes

There were many more things that my memory is a little fuzzy with; whether it was on that tape or told to me privately from Susan in the years following when her and I became friends, so to be safe I left them out of the story.

Chapter 7
My Friend - A Teacher, Part Two

By davisr (Rhonda)

So our friendship evolved and very quickly. It was as if it had a life of its own. We both talk a lot, laughter comes easily, and we can cry at the most improbable things. In other words, we get on like a house on fire. A cliche, if there ever was one, but never the less the truth, hence it's become a cliche.

Meanwhile, during those first couple of years, I learned not only about Marjory's teaching but also about her life in general. Like me, she was divorced and we both had children. She had two daughters, I had one, so we were on common ground there. But otherwise, we couldn't have been more different. I suppose that was the attraction which cemented our friendship.

We were in our late forties and we probably behaved as if we were at least ten years younger, but what great fun we had. I met her daughters, who were both living at home, and I was quickly accepted as a close friend. I also met Marjory's mother who took me in as a new family member. We always chatted away as if we'd known each other our whole life.

My daughter became part of it all as well, whenever she was visiting from Denmark which was fairly often.

Marjory introduced me to some of her friends, who were all a friendly lot and so much fun. To this day, I still meet up with them when I'm in Scotland. I suppose I'd always thought that teachers could be rather staid in their ways, but they all soon put me straight and rightfully so.

So, as I said earlier, this went on for a couple of years. Marjory and I met up on most Fridays or Saturdays. We would go out for a meal and to some pub or other afterwards. Mostly in Glasgow where there's some splendid venues with live Bluegrass bands, something we are both a fan of.

Then rolled in year 2003, and everything would change.

To be continued.

Author Notes

I moved to Scotland in year 2000 when I lost my lucrative job down in England. Rather than going back to Denmark, I chose moving to Scotland. This is about what happened next and about my teacher friend, Marjory.

Chapter 9
That Spark

By davisr (Rhonda)

If, like in H.G. Wells' book, The Time Machine, I could journey back through another dimension, what might I notice about myself as a younger teacher? What should I discover about my students?

Putting the two together, what lessons ought the past teach me?

In a huge puff of smelly smoke, a time machine appeared out of nowhere.

It turned out to be a tricky little gadget with a bit of a mind of its own. With great ferocity, it zapped through time and space at light speed, at least, then hovered over a random day in my first year of teaching. I didn't get out, but peered at myself through a large screen-like window.

Thin, innocent, bespeckled Rhonda looked fearfully from behind a science-book laden desk. She watched a myriad of high school students, like specimens in a shark tank, ready to devour her if she stepped from behind the safety of the work bench. My observation? Survival instincts in full swing.

I sighed deeply as the sounds of whirling dials assaulted my senses once more. A rocky landing, complete with a jarring thump, took me to a different time and location. Creaking shutters opened to reveal a new scene.

A more matured Rhonda ambled among her students as they completed a lab. She smiled often and paid attention to who was finished and who needed extra time. She watched as they turned in papers and returned to their respective seats.

My observation: Growth? Surely that, but meaningful? Not so much.

Watching my students with nostalgia, I hardly noticed the window shut and the machine crank back up.

The vehicle eased to a stop this time. I watched as an even older Rhonda  walked among her students as she lectured. She didn't inspect papers to see what they were writing, and she didn't listen to occasional chatter. She was focused on eyes.

Her voice no longer had a sing-song tone to it and her face didn't look tired and worn.

"If I drop a book and a paper wad at the same time, which will hit the floor first?" she asked.

Hands went up around the room, and answers were called out. "The book... the paper wad... neither.. both..."

Rhonda wasn't trying to find the student with the right answer, or even the one who screamed the loudest. She was searching for that spark. The light shining behind a student's eyes when they discovered something new, something understood.

She held up a book and a paper wad. Whop! They hit the ground at the same time. She expected it. Most of them did not.

Oddly, there was a multitude of expressions in those oval lamps around the room. Some were angry because a belief had just been shattered. Others were confused. Some hadn't seen because their eyes had shifted away at the last moment. But, there were the ones with the sparks. The ones that told Rhonda she'd gotten through.

What had I learned from this encounter? Wait a moment, one more trip in H.G.'s machine.

Rhonda sat in a chair in front of her Principal's desk (that's the boss-guy for teacher's, too). They were going over her plans for students passing the local State Exam, called STAAR in Texas.

"Well, Mrs. Davis, what are your plans for getting the kids to pass the Biology STAAR?"

"To start with, I plan to bring Shipley's Donuts for the kids in the morning."

"I mean, what will you do to prepare them?"

"A good job all year long," Rhonda said with a nod and smile. She looked around the office at all the familiar Principal's Office trappings. There were books on shelves, pictures of family members on the desk, and even an old football helmet from when he'd played on the team in high school. She sighed and turned her head to her young boss.

"I'm pretty sure you're missing the point, Mrs. Davis. I want to know how you'll be certain the students understand the material covered by the test."

Rhonda's face grew serious. "As I review each topic, I search the room for lights."

Tony Hernandez sat with a blank stare. He didn't seem to know what to say, giving Ms. Davis the impression he was about to leap over the desk and give her the Zombie bite of doom.

She shrugged... different tactic. She'd just have to tell him what he wanted to hear.

 

"I'll provide them a series of practice tests over each objective, plot their scores on a graph, compare it to the scores earlier in the year on the benchmark, and develop an individualized growth plan for each student."

The spark ignited in his eyes, the self-same spark she had just tried to explain. 

 

It was all about that spark!
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I turned from the scene and lightly caressed the control center on the time machine.

"Take me home, please."

With a fancy twist of its own, the control panel in H.G.'s machine let off a little spark.

"Very funny," I said. "At least the time machine gets it."
 

Author Notes

A special thanks for the lovely artwork, Little angel by CorbyLinda on FanArtReview This chapter has a bit of fiction mixed with memories, all designed to point out what I look for when seeking to see if the students understand material. I listed it as nonfiction, but there's clearly a bit of blarney mixed in. I'll invoke poetic license even if it isn't a poem. STAAR stands for: State of Texas Assessments of Academic Readiness, which is an end of course exam students must pass at certain grade levels, or in certain secondary courses.

Chapter 10
Minds, Hearts, Souls in Class

By davisr (Rhonda)

Most teachers would agree that we learn just as much from our students as they learn from us. We learn how to teach better from how they learn or don’t learn. We also learn compassion as we record their personal stories in our hearts. Their stories can change the way we view certain controversial topics. 

 

I received a master's degree in teaching English as a Second Language after my oldest child entered college. This career change from computing to ESL was a natural one as I was an immigrant who loved languages and different cultures. It was gratifying to think I would be easing the lives of people like my parents who struggled because of language and cultural barriers.

 

My first job was with a community college teaching basic English to lower level adult students who were laid off from their factory jobs. Receipt of unemployment checks required that they attended English class. In between grammar lessons and basic computing skills, I listened to their stories.

 

There was one lady who fled war-torn Cambodia, haunted by memories of the slaughter of her relatives and teachers. There was a couple whose young daughter fell into a coma during a dental procedure at a dental school. To save money, they had their daughter treated by a dentist trainee. No one could have known that it would lead to a decade of visiting their daughter in a hospital. There was a man whose father would not allow him to go to school. Instead, he worked  in fields across the country as a migrant harvester all his childhood years. Finally, as a grandfather, he was learning to read.

 

These students were hardworking. I remember one man who, in addition to his fulltime job, played in his mariachi band. He also grew vegetables at home and sold them. On weekends, he made a thousand tamales and sold them. Others were equally as enterprising, working in landscaping, creating crafts like Christmas wreaths, as their side job. 

 

Most of my Spanish speakers entered the country illegally but became citizens. In 1986, President Reagan (a Republican) granted amnesty to three million illegal immigrants living as citizens in the US. In 1990, President Bush, Sr. (also a Republican) extended that amnesty to relatives of those who received the first amnesty. It was under President Clinton (a Democrat) where the deportation laws were made much more strict that it became impossible for migrant workers to come and go freely. Previously, migrant workers came into the country illegally, worked for a season, and returned. But the stricter deportation laws forced many illegals to come and then remain for fear of never being allowed to come back. 

 

Religion also played a role in how immigrants adapted to American life. In my high school years, I remember refugees from Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia were often sponsored by churches. They seem to have adapted well. My college professor of Asian American studies said that Koreans had it easier because most of them were Christian and were readily accepted by church communities. Most of my Spanish speakers identified as Christian, and some were ready to share the Good News with others.

 

I will never forget one student’s story. I’ll call him Fernando. His last name made me smile because in Spanish it means “thin”. But this man was not “thin” in anyone’s imagination. He was normally quiet, especially in volunteering answers, until one morning when he got my attention and spoke with a full body expression of every word.

 

“Teacher! I had a terrible dream. A nightmare!  In my dream, the devil was pulling me down to hell, and there was this big hole that was going to swallow me up! But God’s angel was pulling me away from that hole.” He physically enacted this by demonstrating both sides of the tug-o-war. “I cried, No! I don’t want to go there! And then, I woke up.”

 

I listened with sympathy and a little alarm at the intensity of his nightmare. “I’ll pray for you,” I said softly, knowing I’m not allowed to speak of religion in a state run institution. 

 

Behind Señor Not-So-Thin, two women listened intently and smiled. In the hallway, I could see these ladies, who attended a Pentecostal church, talking to Fernando. They gave him Scripture pamphlets and invited him to their church. Over the next few weeks, I noticed a growing peace blanketing his face.

 

A few years later, a co-worker informed me that Fernando died suddenly. Perhaps it was due to some complication with diabetes. But I felt confident that God won that tug-o-war over his soul. So when I remember my first paid teaching job (I had others as a volunteer), I remember my hardworking students who came to do back-breaking, mind-numbing jobs that few people wanted to do. And I also remember how God brought some to share the Good News in places where we are not allowed to share. 

Author Notes

Notes: Thanks to Rhonda for starting this book to share our teaching memories. So many Fanstorians have teaching experience. There are lots of articles and YouTube presentations about the changing immigration policies and the amnesty granted. https://www.vox.com/2016/4/28/11515132/iirira-clinton-immigration

Chapter 11
Mrs. W

By davisr (Rhonda)

Fifth grade was the year I had my favorite teacher who never belittled me or yelled at me. She only praised me and had a beautiful warm accepting smile.  Something did happen that year, that took me a long time to get over, possibly, because everything else was so perfect about Mrs. W. I had a booklet which looked like a comic book with information regarding some particular animals.

 

 My favorite was the camel, a survivor of harsh conditions.  I identified with it and was comforted to study the coping equipment: padded feet, an extra transparent eyelid, and a storage hump for water.  When I was feeling especially vulnerable, all I had to do was turn to that page and I felt better.

  

 I brought it to school one day and let Trudy look at it.  For some reason, Mrs. W. was not as enamored with Trudy as she was with me and when she caught Trudy with my comic book she took it away from her.  When she threw it into the wastebasket, I tried to explain to Mrs. W. that it wasn’t a comic book and that I needed it.

 

This is the part that hurt for a long time. My favorite teacher of all time snapped, "You shouldn’t have brought it to school."   All...day...long...I had to sit in the classroom knowing that one of my comforts was in the wastebasket and I’d return the following day and it would be gone for good, somewhere outside in a nasty garbage bin.  This saddened me deeply.

  

Since being a teacher and finding myself doing some of the same things, I have understood Mrs. W. and even wrote a poem about her kindnesses. A few years before Mrs. W. died, I was able to present the poem to her in person. I had to work on understanding and letting go of the deep hurt before I could visit her.

Despite that incident, she was the first nurturing individual in my childhood, except Timmy's mom who was a little humorously gruff but loving.

  

I love to draw.  I still have my first scrapbook of artwork from when I was eight. I've posted it on Facebook so it'll be safe there.  It was one of my ways of coping.  When Mrs W. gave us a reading assignment to draw an idea from a specific story, I drew a picture of an elephant with a tiger wrapped in its trunk.

 

 Mrs. W. made sure she showed it to the class with great praise for my talent and every class thereafter.  For at least 2 or 3 years later,  kids were coming to tell me that they’d seen my drawing of the tiger with the elephant’s trunk wrapped around it.
Below is the poem I have mentioned: 

 
         My Memory 
 

Her name came up
        In conversation 

                Mrs. W. 

 I began to draw  

        In my heart 

My memory of her 

 I drew my memory
  
of her face of kindness 

of her heart of gentleness 

of her voice of comfort 

                                 
I quickly turned to  

                    Another page 

I began to sketch 

                  Her standing there 

                      In front of us    

                          Her fifth grade 

Teaching us 

        Not just 

How to read 

How to do arithmetic 

How to express ourselves 

 
          But standing there 

                  teaching us 

                   who we can become 

                      with the gifts within us 

I turned to  

        another page 

  And without need of thought 

I drew her 

        Revealing these gifts 

                to me 

                that I knew not of  

                which lay deep within 

                my being 

 

To be discovered 

        at another time 

        in another season 

 

The next sketch  

        was me-now 

        looking deeply 

        into that gift 

                at the seed 

 
Of that gift 

        which she 

        so long ago 

                began to nurture 

 

My last sketch 

        in this book 

        of my memory 

 

Was of me 

        Giving to Mrs. W.  

        a blossom 

                from that gift 

Many years ago I read a wonderful book that inspired me to write my poem. The book was by Daniel Quinn called Ishmael. In this story Ishmael is constantly sketching his mother, In what she's doing she's standing by the window she's over by the table She's different place. I wanted to do something like that for Mrs W. verbally sketching her doing different things. I hope you enjoy my unique approach..

Pays 10 points and 57 member cents.
 

Author Notes

Many years ago I read a wonderful book that inspired me to write my poem. The book was by Daniel Quinn called Ishmael. In this story Ishmael is constantly sketching his mother, In what she's doing she's standing by the window she's over by the table She's different place. I wanted to do something like that for Mrs W. verbally sketching her doing different things. I hope you enjoy my unique approach.

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