A mom’s point of view: The year I loved school
Mr. Emmorey, my fifth-grade teacher, was hands-down the best teacher I ever had. He was creative, fun, and passionate about instilling a love of learning in his students. He built a darkroom in the classroom and provided everything we needed to take and develop our own photographs. When we studied the judicial system, he turned our classroom into a courtroom; we became lawyers, judges, jury members and even criminals. (He gave me a ticket for leaning back in my chair, and I had to go to “court” to be tried by a jury of my peers.) We drew a map of the United States, built a gigantic dome out of cardboard, and hung on his every word as he read J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” out loud.
Mr. Emmorey was most famous for creating a free enterprise system each year with his students. We designed and printed our own money, established corporations, paid rent, and opened for business on Fridays. (I was the proud co-owner of both a bakery and an art shop.) Students from other classes would stream into our marketplace, “Mt. Emmorey,” eager to spend money they had earned for extra credit or good behavior.
For all of the things that fifth grade was, perhaps what is most remarkable to me was what it was not. In third grade something happened that changed my world. One day, a teacher I had never seen before pulled me from class and led me to a room just off the school library. She turned on a tape recorder and asked me to describe my house. Part way through my description, she called attention to the fact that I had stuttered on the word “downstairs.” I was too embarrassed to tell her that I didn’t know what “stuttered” meant, so I waited until I got home and looked the word up in the dictionary.
stut·ter (verb) 1. Speak with stammer: to say something haltingly, repeating sounds frequently when attempting to pronounce them, either from nervousness or as the result of a speech disorder.
At 8 years old, I read in a book what was wrong with me. Over the years, as the stuttering grew worse, those words took on a life of their own, morphing into a debilitating life message. I was not normal. I was not OK.
Somewhere along my journey, stuttering ceased to be something I did and began to define who I was. I was a stutterer. It changed everything: my love for school, my outgoing personality, my confidence. The words I loved, from spelling cards and books, the words I used to write stories and poems became a source of frustration. I began thinking ahead, anticipating words I might stumble over, switching them out for words with similar meanings. I withdrew into a shell and dreaded the classroom. In middle school and high school, I was led by my anxiety, taking classes like art and writing and avoiding teachers that required oral reports. I have numerous memories of feeling humiliated, kids mocking me and making fun of me. Some teachers were sympathetic and left me alone. Others may have thought they were helping me “grow out of it” by calling on me frequently, making me read out loud. For years I would lay awake at night, sick to my stomach with dread at the thought of going to school the next day.
So I find it amazing that in fifth grade, for all of the things I do remember, I don’t remember stuttering. That year was like a magical oasis in the middle of my school years, and probably the last year I was able to just be me. It was most definitely the last year I loved school.
I never told Mr. Emmorey back then what I am writing now. I never thought to tell him, “Thank you. Thank you for making school such a fun, safe place. Thank you for creating an environment where I could learn, grow, and feel free to be me. Thank you for not pushing me too hard. Thank you for cultivating my strengths instead of showcasing my weaknesses.”
I recently found Mr. Emmorey on Facebook. I was able to tell him — 28 years after the fact — what a fantastic year fifth grade was. He has no memory of me stuttering. Neither of us can remember it coming up or being an issue. It remains a mystery to me. I don’t know what changed from fifth to sixth grade. Maybe it was the unconventional way Mr. Emmorey taught his class that eliminated my anxiety. Maybe it was changing to a big, new school in sixth grade that kicked it up again, worse than ever. Whatever it was that made that year so special, I thanked him for providing an experience that shines in my memory like a bright star in the darkest night.
I think teaching is like parenting. Enormous amounts of time and energy are invested in the lives of children each and every day, and seldom do kids (or parents for that matter) think to say, “Thank you. You have made a difference, and you are great at what you do.”
My daughters have had fantastic teachers. Teachers who love what they do, find creative ways to make learning fun, and are every bit as interested in developing character and creativity in their students as they are in extracting good grades. Over and over, I have found their teachers to be caring, thoughtful mentors for my children, willing to go the extra mile to bring out the very best in my kids.
I don’t always think to show my appreciation, but reflecting back on my own school years has reminded me. This year, my girls are completely on board. They aren’t going to wait until years from now to tell their teachers thank you. A personal note of gratitude may be just what a teacher needs to feel encouraged, and to erase any doubts about whether or not what they do each and every day makes a difference.
ŸBecky Baudouin lives in the Northwest suburbs with her husband, Bernie, and their three daughters. She blogs regularly at beckyspen.blogspot.com.