It is so unbelievably ironic that I live approxiamately four to five miles from my old high school. On most of my errands, I pass by the school and I can not help but go back in time, a time in my life that still remains part of my reality each and every time.
1976-1977. I was in tenth grade. Relieved to have lived through ninth grade without a scratch or embarrassing incident, tenth grade was going to be a breeze. That is until geometry class and English class. Geometry with Mrs. Long was a welcome diversion to English class with Mrs. Petty, believe me. The irony was that English was foremost always my favorite subject. So much so that I had set my sights on going to a school of journalism somewhere and becoming a reporter. I was forever writing. Each and every day my passion remained and each and every day, I attended Geometry class twice a day so I would pass the state exam. Mrs. Long let me bring my lunch to the second class.
On one particular day, I was not exactly focused. I was chit-chatting with my friends in English class, happily ready for Mrs. Petty. We opened our grammar textbooks and I began my day-dreaming. As if on cue, Mrs. Petty asked me if I knew the difference between a phrase and a clause. There she was, this petite, husky-voiced woman, impeccably dressed each and every day, waiting for my response. I looked down at my textbook and well, I answered incorrectly. "It was a CLAUSE!!!! You idiot," I said to myself. At that moment, Mrs. Petty looked at me and said "Well, I guess we have a border-line illiterate in our class." My friend behind me, burst out laughing. I did not think it was funny. I lowered my head, held back the tears, mortified, embarrassed. I wanted to vomit but luckily I had not eaten my lunch yet. Besides, I refused to give up the cinnamon twist donut I had had for breakfast.
I could not wait to get out of her class. The bell rang and I ran out of the classroom and went to my locker. I fell apart in tears into the door of my locker trying to figure out what I had done that was so horrible. She knew I wanted to be a writer. She knew I valued her opinion. I had respect for my teachers. All I wantted to do was to go home but I knew well enough that my mother would insist I finish the day. In the 70's, teachers had their say and the ownership of their classes, plain and simple. I did not go to my guidance counselor. I did not go to an administrator. I made it to the end of the day and came home and told my mother. "I'm never going to become a writer! EVER!" I cried. "Forget writing. Forget it all." My mother let me cry and gently reminded me that I should not give up. "Borderline illiterate...I'll show her," I told myself.
11th grade came soon enough and Mrs.Petty was behind me. I finished high school and evenutally ended up becoming a local reporter and then, as fate would have it, a teacher. At the age of 42, I was officially a teacher and not just any teacher, an ENGLISH teacher and there has not been a year that has gone by that I have not thought of Mrs. Petty. There is not a day in the classroom that I do not think about every word that comes out of my mouth. The words that come out of our mouths have a profound effect on the people that respect us. I learned that at the age of 16. I realized growing up just how important the words from those we look up to have on our passions and our drive to be "someone special." I spent years searching for that kind of validation. Mrs. Petty wasn't the last person to discourage me or tell me I was not capable. However, I can thank Mrs. Petty for making me a teacher. I can thank Mrs. Petty for an education far beyond a clause and a phrase.
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