Okay, upon rereading, this sounds very much like a middle school essay. I think it is because I wasn't inspired, I went with a writing prompt. Lesson learned?
Teachers are often the first people, outside of parents, with whom children have regular contact. As the other adult in a child's life, their impact should not be underestimated. A good teacher can be the shining light in a child's life, while a poor one can be the daily disappointment, if not nightmare, in a child's life. And ironically, the students who so desperately need a teacher the most, are the ones who often struggle the most to form a good bond with a teacher.
I went through the early years of my schooling with the fuzzy, innocent view only the unawakened have. I was never a teacher's pet, frequently in trouble for talking, and sent to sit with the boys who didn't behave at the back table. I didn't really think too much about it. I had been talking, it didn't really occur to me my teacher's heart might not dance with joy to see my face. In second grade I was becoming a little more aware of power struggles and hierarchies, but was still pretty innocent. In third grade, at age eight, I was awake. I liked my teacher, I was good and fast at the work, and even though I wasn't a cool, popular girl, I had a good friend or two. Fourth grade, brought on Hell, fast and quick. This was after several moves, and I started at a very small school in a mixed 3/4th grade class. There were only four fourth grade girls and the fighting was constant and bitter. This was topped off by a teacher who wore dress skirts and kitten heels and pantyhose. She was fancy and fastidious and reserved, and I was her opposite. She did not like me, and as hard as I tried to please her, I was never the sweet, obedient child she preferred. I mumble. I have strong opinions. I TALKED out loud. I was raised with boys, a bit rough, and I often had holes in the toes of my shoes (which I totally would have forgotten if it wasn't for my big toes poking out in the class photo). It was a bad year.
The following year, our school joined with another and our tiny building housed the 5th and 6th graders. The teachers split up core subjects and each student was assigned a homeroom. This teacher was an inspiration. I loved her. She wore jeans even though she was overweight, which seemed so cool to me. She had preppy sweaters with shirt collars underneath, and grey hair and a big smile. She hugged me and asked why I didn't hug back. She made me feel like I was someone even when I wasn't perfect. Mrs. Shurtz was the designated language arts teacher at a time when my passion was writing. She encouraged me and helped me perfect my childish pieces and encouraged us to use five dollar words. She believed in my crappy poetry. The next year, after we had moved to St. Louis and returned to Springfield in February or March, she had become a sixth grade teacher, and smiled and said she would take me in her room. I was so happy.
Now I got in trouble with Mrs. Shurtz. I still talked too much. I still gave her major attitude, which eventually led to a long tear-soaked lecture with her and the principal while the other kids got an extra recess. But she always made me feel loved. She always made a big deal out of our grades and we girls fought to be the one whose report card would read "Top Score!" on various subjects. When I was floundering in the popular group, she wisely moved me to another group of girls who were more accepting (through the wisdom of a seating chart). I felt the relief of a more forgiving social structure, and it wasn't until years later that I realized this was probably planned.
Mrs. Shurtz was the teacher I always wanted to be. While I don't have the natural warmth she exuded, I feel blessed to have had her as an influence in my life. If someone were to ask me, who inspired me to be a teacher, it would have to be Mrs. Shurtz (along with Laura in These Happy Golden Years, of course. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am not very good with names. I tend to rely to strongly on right brain cues to make associations with people. But the name, Jane Shurtz, along with She Who Must Not Be Named, will remained etched into my brain long into my life.
Teachers are often the first people, outside of parents, with whom children have regular contact. As the other adult in a child's life, their impact should not be underestimated. A good teacher can be the shining light in a child's life, while a poor one can be the daily disappointment, if not nightmare, in a child's life. And ironically, the students who so desperately need a teacher the most, are the ones who often struggle the most to form a good bond with a teacher.
I went through the early years of my schooling with the fuzzy, innocent view only the unawakened have. I was never a teacher's pet, frequently in trouble for talking, and sent to sit with the boys who didn't behave at the back table. I didn't really think too much about it. I had been talking, it didn't really occur to me my teacher's heart might not dance with joy to see my face. In second grade I was becoming a little more aware of power struggles and hierarchies, but was still pretty innocent. In third grade, at age eight, I was awake. I liked my teacher, I was good and fast at the work, and even though I wasn't a cool, popular girl, I had a good friend or two. Fourth grade, brought on Hell, fast and quick. This was after several moves, and I started at a very small school in a mixed 3/4th grade class. There were only four fourth grade girls and the fighting was constant and bitter. This was topped off by a teacher who wore dress skirts and kitten heels and pantyhose. She was fancy and fastidious and reserved, and I was her opposite. She did not like me, and as hard as I tried to please her, I was never the sweet, obedient child she preferred. I mumble. I have strong opinions. I TALKED out loud. I was raised with boys, a bit rough, and I often had holes in the toes of my shoes (which I totally would have forgotten if it wasn't for my big toes poking out in the class photo). It was a bad year.
The following year, our school joined with another and our tiny building housed the 5th and 6th graders. The teachers split up core subjects and each student was assigned a homeroom. This teacher was an inspiration. I loved her. She wore jeans even though she was overweight, which seemed so cool to me. She had preppy sweaters with shirt collars underneath, and grey hair and a big smile. She hugged me and asked why I didn't hug back. She made me feel like I was someone even when I wasn't perfect. Mrs. Shurtz was the designated language arts teacher at a time when my passion was writing. She encouraged me and helped me perfect my childish pieces and encouraged us to use five dollar words. She believed in my crappy poetry. The next year, after we had moved to St. Louis and returned to Springfield in February or March, she had become a sixth grade teacher, and smiled and said she would take me in her room. I was so happy.
Now I got in trouble with Mrs. Shurtz. I still talked too much. I still gave her major attitude, which eventually led to a long tear-soaked lecture with her and the principal while the other kids got an extra recess. But she always made me feel loved. She always made a big deal out of our grades and we girls fought to be the one whose report card would read "Top Score!" on various subjects. When I was floundering in the popular group, she wisely moved me to another group of girls who were more accepting (through the wisdom of a seating chart). I felt the relief of a more forgiving social structure, and it wasn't until years later that I realized this was probably planned.
Mrs. Shurtz was the teacher I always wanted to be. While I don't have the natural warmth she exuded, I feel blessed to have had her as an influence in my life. If someone were to ask me, who inspired me to be a teacher, it would have to be Mrs. Shurtz (along with Laura in These Happy Golden Years, of course. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am not very good with names. I tend to rely to strongly on right brain cues to make associations with people. But the name, Jane Shurtz, along with She Who Must Not Be Named, will remained etched into my brain long into my life.
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