"The teacher doesn't like me." My father looked exasperated. This was not a reasonable excuse. He lectured on why it should not matter whether a teacher liked me. I promised to try to get my grades up to end his lecture. But he was wrong. It mattered to me. 

If my teacher did not like me I could not like her. I did not know how to change that as a child. I still don’t.  And if I did not like her I did not want to listen to her voice or sit close enough to smell her perfume while she explained a math problem. I could not ask questions. You do not reveal weakness to an enemy. For the same reason I could not trust her with my thoughts or dreams.

I knew she did not care about me because she did not smile when I entered the room. She might ask how I was but paid no attention when I told her. She never noticed if I looked sad. As long as I was quiet during class I could be invisible... the best option when you are in the enemy camp.

Before I went to school I thought all teachers loved kids. I thought they laughed and gave sideways hugs and cared about you in ways your parents didn't. I saw teachers like that on TV. By the end of first grade I understood I was very wrong.  Real teachers did not laugh, cry or use the bathroom. Their touch wasn't gentle or kind. And they didn't have to like kids.

The first day of every school year became a reconnaissance mission. I learned what rules to follow to stay out of trouble. I tried to procure a strategic location for my desk. The prime spot was by the windows. From there I could scan the entire room and the windows provided an imaginary escape for my mind and an emergency escape for my body. I dreaded the first day introductions. When I said my name it was followed by "You must be John and Roger's sister." I knew they expected me to be smart like them. I never liked to do the expected.

My fifth grade teacher was new. She did not know my brothers. She was young and looked happy. I remember her deep dimples when she smiled and she smiled a lot. We all loved her and wrote notes to tell her that. After awhile she asked us to limit our notes to once a week and concentrate more on our schoolwork. I did. I would do anything she asked. I handed my father the report card and announced the teacher liked me. He looked at the four A’s and two B+’s. He nodded, but did not look as pleased as I thought he would.

She stood in front of us and said she had to leave. She smiled but her voice was shaky. She was going to have a baby. I had never cried in front of the other kids. I was in the "tom boy" group and we didn't do that. But that day I did. The substitute was an old retired teacher who had never met a black person and was afraid to be in our school, the only integrated grade school in the city. I know this is true because she told us. The war resumed. My father said nothing when my grades fell. He expected it.

As I went through Jr. high and high school the pattern continued. If a teacher showed personal interest I did the work. If they didn't care neither did I. By the time I got to college I was more sensible, but it remained easier with teachers who connected with me. All it took was a sense of humor and a sincere smile.

When I finished I was elated. I thought I would never enter a school or a classroom again. At the time I wasn't thinking about my "yet-to-be" children.

My son's kindergarten was two blocks away. The teacher had an orientation for parents. She wanted to talk to us without the distraction of the children. I walked into the school and felt like I couldn't breathe. I found a seat before I fell down.

The teacher, who did not crack a smile, explained the way things worked in her classroom. Every day began with a worksheet. Once finished the child would go to an assigned area for activities... Blocks, art, books, puzzles. But first they had to finish the worksheet. At the top of each sheet was a space for their name and the date. She wanted them to learn this habit early.

My son didn't write yet and it frustrated him. The month before I heard a report on National Public Radio that the small muscles in boys’ hands are not developed until seven or eight and it could do harm to force them to write earlier than that. I stopped trying to teach him how to write his name and he and I were both happier for it. I doubted my ability to persuade this teacher to alter her daily routine based a report I heard on the radio. I am lousy with names. I couldn't remember the doctor who reported it. I didn't know how long they conducted the study, their methodology, or if any other social scientists had repeated it with the same results. I felt defeated before I even began. She listened but assured me she had been teaching long enough to know this worked just fine.

My son was smart. He made up math problems to amuse himself. He thought infinity was so wonderful he daydreamed about it. He also had perfectionist tendencies. We tried to get him to loosen up by singing the Big Bird song about everyone makes mistakes. I envisioned him alone at the table. All the other children had finished and were in the activity areas. He would hear them build blocks and topple them. And see them make snakes from the play dough. And sense the teacher was not pleased with him. My beautiful boy would think he was stupid. 

I found another school. And this time I could breathe when I walked in. I had to stop myself from dancing down the hall. Years before I saw a brochure in the grocery check-out line.  The cover had a pigtailed girl with arms stretched to the sky and a quote from Jean Piaget : "The principal goal of education in the schools should be creating men and women who are capable of doing new things, not simply repeating what other generations have done; men and women who are creative, inventive and discoverers, who can be critical and verify, and not accept, everything they are offered.” These words took my breath away. (I judge many things based on the response of my lungs).  I scanned the brochure and saw it was a private school. We could never afford it. I read that they valued the arts. A thought came that I could barter tuition. I imagined that for a moment and then let it go. My son was six months old. It seemed a long way off.

Thoughts like these do not disappear. They wait for the right time. I enrolled my son for afternoon kindergarten. I could pay the half day tution through mime performances. During “M” week I was my son's "show and tell". “Mommy is a Mime”. I did a performance and workshop with his class and was offered a job the next day. Both kids could attend the school, I would receive a small salary, my time was flexible so I could do mime performances. My job was to create an exciting learning environment through infusing the arts into all curriculum areas.

Over the next ten years I worked at this school and learned how to create movement pieces to depict the alphabet, Solar Systems, the layers of earth and the three branches of Government. We created on-going improv stories on historical events that the students continued during recess. We dramatized math problems and created plays based on books and the student’s own stories. When children showed an interest in a subject we took it as long and as far as they wanted to go with it. My son's middle school class spent a good part of a year adapting Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy into a play they performed, costumed and directed.

I did artist residencies at schools throughout the state. What I learned at this school worked at all schools. Children from every economic and cultural group responded to active learning. When my children went on to high school I became the Education Director of a Regional Arts Council. This is one of many reasons I think the Universe has a sense of humor. I, who never wanted to see another classroom, now teach teachers. 

Maybe it shouldn't. But it does.  

***

photo: "Leave it to Beaver" Season 3 Episode 2. Beaver thinks Miss Landers is a wonderful teacher and invites her over for dinner one night. At the end of the episode Wally says “Some teachers punish you by sending you to the principal’s office and some teachers punish you by being nice.”