In the office of our elementary school hangs this sign: “The best teachers are those who show you where to look but don’t tell you what to see.” This saying reminds me of a time when our friend who is an interior designer asked my daughter about age 4 what she saw in a new painting over the sofa. She saw so many details – the colors, the little vignettes within the larger Parisian scene, the animals, the clothes. I marveled at what she could see that I could not.

I’m thankful that my children go to a school where creativity, critical thinking, the power of observation, and self-motivation are key values. My children have been so blessed by their teachers who care as much about their character as their performance, and as a mom, I couldn’t be more grateful.

I remember the first preschool conference my husband and I went to. The teacher glowed about my daughter and “what a blessing she was to the classroom”, and I felt that sting of tears of pride for the first time. I remember best her Kindergarten conference where the teacher described her incredible determination to master the monkey bars and how impressed she was with her persistence. I was the one impressed that this precious woman watched her closely enough on the playground to notice such a thing and saw the traits exhibited during play time as an important part of her early academic experience.

My kids go to private school.  It’s something I never imagined would happen. My husband and I both went all the way through public schools, his in a suburb where schools had a good reputation but still plenty of challenges, mine in the inner city where we sometimes made the news for violence, had a terrible drop out rate and were rarely recognized for academic performance. But I had so many wonderful teachers and so many super-smart friends who’ve gone on to thrive and succeed in every field imaginable. I’m not sure exactly why we made the choice we did for our own kids, except that at the time it felt right.  It’s been a good experience, and they’re so happy in school, so we haven’t made any changes.

I believe in public schools. I believe that as a society we can do better, have to do better. I know with confidence that despite the negative press, schools are still filled with talented, caring, creative and committed teachers who are truly making a difference in the lives of the children that come into their classrooms. I also know from my own experience and from listening to my friends, that schools are addressing hunger, homelessness, trauma in the lives of their students and other social problems that are beyond my imagination. The men and women in education deserve every possible thank you for their efforts.

It’s teacher appreciation at our sweet little preschool and at our elementary school. I can’t say thank you enough to the people who love my children and open their minds to new worlds of possibility every day. I want to say thank you to teachers in general by remembering a few of my own. Some of them were the very best possible examples. Some of them were real characters. But all of them gave so much time and so much of themselves to give me and my peers a bright future, and I am forever thankful.

Here’s the prompt: Describe a teacher. Don’t be abstract. Be honest and detailed.

I have too many favorite teachers, or rather favorite memories of teachers, to pick just one.

There was Mrs. Hammert in first grade. She wasn’t my primary teacher, but I went to her for math where we learned addition with red hots and M&M’s on special days, dried beans on other days. She is everything you imagine a first grade teacher to be, kind and warm.  I lost a tooth in math one day, and I remember the special tooth packet she made me out of notebook paper and staples with a hand-drawn smiley face. I believed that I was really good at math right up until I took Calculus my senior year of high school. I attribute this to the encouragement and red hot foundation Mrs. Hammert laid for us.

In fourth grade, there was Mrs. Billups. I loved my homeroom teacher Mrs. Grant that year, too, but I spent afternoons with Mrs. Billups who was a young brunette.  She sat on a high stool to read us magical books like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I remember doing a lot of book reports in her class. One book, the title I cannot remember, inspired me to bake shortbread and serve it while singing “Mama’s little baby loves shortenin’ shortenin’…”  I was really proud of a painting I did of Kitty from A Dog Called Kitty, and of a fat little paper mache giraffe that I molded in her class for a research paper. At one of these book reports, after I had already given my presentation, I was giving many instructions to the next presenter about setting up his easel, etc. Mrs. Billups, perched on that tall leather stool, firmly said, “Yes, Miss Boss!” It stung. I wanted to please her so much. But it was effective.  I was bossy, no doubt about it, and I held my tongue a lot more after she called my attention to it.  I went on to become an English major.  I always loved to read, but books took on power in Mrs. Billups’ class. 

Jr. High is such a blur. Does anyone remember it? I do remember my choir teacher who wrote our school musicals with her husband.  I remember standing on the stage and trying out for the part of a school teacher, no less, and hearing her say to her husband, “she’s so good!” It was a speaking part, not a singing part – more on that later.  But so much confidence was gained on that stage in the midst of that awkward phase.  I also remember my math teacher and participating in an elective called “math team” where we learned all kinds of amazing testing strategies for math olympiad and other competitions.  She was so much fun and so smart, and she definitely launched me into my next phase of excelling in math.

My parents met each other teaching at my high school. By the time I got there as a student, Woodrow was the stuff of legend. It was a wild place where my mom, a young beautiful teacher, was held up in a closet by an angry protestor during a civil rights demonstration in the park across the street in the 1960s. It was the place of funny stories about crazy antics students pulled and the way pot smoking at lunch made a waste of afternoon classes.  It also was the place where my mom had taken One Act plays to state competitions, sponsored a lot of seniors with incredible talents and huge successes, and where she had clearly delighted in her students. Some of my parents’ colleagues were also their best friends, and a few them, like my beloved Ms. Parrett, were still teaching when I got there. My mom taught more than a few of my classmate’s parents, and it seemed her stories of being in command of her classroom and admired by her students were true. I loved these stories. I’m proud of her for teaching history in an era when that department was still a man’s world and most positions were reserved for coaches.

When I got to Woodrow, I continued on in choir under the direction of Mrs. Bircher. No one could pull off a high school musical like Mrs. Bircher. Everyone in choir could be part of it. If a show had no chorus, she made a chorus work. An army of volunteers put together costumes and worked back stage and built sets. It was an incredible thing to be part of. Mrs. Bircher learned early on that I could not sing to save my life. We had to sight read onto a tape, and it’s a miracle she could still hear after listening to it. But she made a plan for me to organize her music library as my final exam every year. My senior year she wrote a speaking part into Singing in the Rain for me, at least I think it was for me, and my kids still love to watch that old VHS tape. 

I took geometry and trigonometry from Coach Wolf.  He fittingly was very gruff and had a huge black beard. He had a sign on his desk that read, “Lack of preparation on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.” I might have been known to use that a few times over the years. Geometry and Trig challenged my brain.  It certainly didn’t come as naturally as Algebra.  I got an exam back one day that wasn’t a very good grade.  I’m sure he could see the disappointment in my face, and as I walked out of class, he looked up from his desk and said, “Hey, McBride, Superman doesn’t fly every day.” I have definitely repeated that to myself a few times over the years. It’s advice to live by for a perfectionist. 

I also loved Chemistry in high school which is proof that who I really loved was my teacher, Mr. Samples.  I took Chemistry in college because I thought I might want to be a chemical cngineer like my grandfather.  That year was one year too many. I remember working out a problem on the board and when he said it was right, I clicked my heels in the air and he laughed. His classroom overlooked the parking lot, and one day he spotted some students who were supposed to be in his class coming in from their cars.  I remember how far he leaned his stout body out of the window and waved his arms yelling, “Hello, down there! What you been doing?!” and how those students scurried as fast as they could into the building. Mr. Samples made experiments fun. One day I broke a piece of lab equipment measuring the force of my arm or something ridiculous. He didn’t say a thing. He just casually slipped me a paper with the amount I owed for it written down. 

I don’t consider myself good at math or chemistry any more. I would never dare to try out for a musical again. I had so many opportunities that I wouldn’t have had at a more competitive bigger school, opportunities like being one of the drill team captains even though I struggled with my weight. My friends at church had their body fat measured before every performance. (Please, for the love, tell me they don’t do that any more!)  I would never have pounded out The Rhythm of Life with show choir even though all I had to offer was a big smile and some dance moves.

Every year was not a good year. I didn’t always love school. I wasn’t winning any awards for popularity and was way more straight laced than any human ever needed to be. But all those teachers in the hallways knew my name. On tough days, I always knew there was going to be a smile, an encouraging word,  and maybe even a good hug in at least one class period. I realize I’m writing this from the perspective of someone who rarely got in trouble and excelled in school. That is not everyone’s experience. Teachers can wound with their words as easily as they can heal. Some play favorites. Some pick on one student every year. They’re all human. But I’ve been blessed by so many, so tremendously blessed. Thank you for sharing your passions, for being liberal with your praise, for disciplining with humor and love. Thank you for helping to propel me into this future I’m living now with so much joy and gratitude.  

So friends, describe a teacher to me. Be honest and detailed. Email your responses to shannon@lifeprompted.com  If it’s not teacher appreciation week where you are, let’s say a big thank you together anyway!