As a life-long English teacher, one might think that I would have a cherished collection of stories to share about the English teachers in my past who inspired me, pushed me to do better, and guided me on this path. The truth, however, is that I have memories of past English teachers, first in middle school, then in high school, who actually chose to put barriers in my way. I keep these memories in my back pocket, not out of resentment or spite, but because they inspired me to be better.
I first fell in love with reading at the age of 8. My family was on a cross-country road trip, and because it was the 1980s, I rolled around in the back of my dad's pickup truck all the way from Phoenix to Washington, D.C. (There was a camper shell ensuring I didn't leap to my demise--we weren't animals.) I read E.B. White's classic children's novel, Charlotte's Web, for the first of a dozen times on that trip. It was the first time I felt the now-familiar butterflies of awe and magic that still wash over me to this day when I read something beautiful. From that point on, I became a voracious reader--my mom would literally hide my books to get me to do my chores--and I soon took up the mighty pen to capture the delight and the agony of youth in poetry.
By the time I entered middle school, I frequently sat in the back of my classes reading and writing. I'd quickly complete the day's assignments, then retreat once again into my own world. Thanks to excellent test scores, I took honors English in middle school, and I earned good marks. Despite this, my 8th-grade English teacher recommended I not carry on with advanced English classes in high school due to my inattentiveness. It's funny to me that what I was actually doing in her class was carrying on a love affair with the written word, but she made a different assumption about me.
I began Freshman English at Independence High School in 1992. I was bored out of my everloving mind. I hated. that. class. The teacher advised me that I should speak to the department head, Ms. Lipscomb, and ask to take a placement test for the honors and AP track. Though the prospect of having this conversation terrified me, I did it anyway, and she gave me a date to come by after school to take the test. The week of the test, the advisor for the (VHS!) video yearbook informed me that we had a deadline to meet and that I absolutely could NOT take an afternoon off--not even for a placement test. Trapped between two competing authorities, I went back to Ms. Lipscomb to ask if we could reschedule. She said no. It was now or never.
I decided that meant never.
I mean, that was so worth it, right? Thirty years later, I just know everyone still cherishes their fuzzy VHS memories of the 1992-1993 school year.
Needless to say, I continued to languish in English classes for the rest of my time in high school. I also traded in my books and poetry for the lofty pursuits of making signs and balloon arches for StuCo and convincing people to give me a lift to Taco Bell for the 59, 79, 99-cent menu.
Four years of middling English classes later, during my senior year, I found myself as Ms. Lippy's--yes, the very same Ms. Lipscomb's--student. Oh, how she loathed that class… but she liked me. I sat in the first seat of the first row (as I did in all my classes with a last name like Akers), so we'd talk sometimes about current events. She was also the first of my English teachers to require that I read a novel. I chose Wuthering Heights. I was hesitant when I started reading it, discouraged by the language that felt stuffy to me, but soon the book swept me away in a flurry of those old familiar butterflies and magic. I devoured it, and came to class ready to talk her ear off about what I suspected the moors might symbolize and the role that nature played in the story.
I remember so clearly that she looked up from her desk, smiled, and said, you, my dear, should have been in Honors English.
Womp womp.
When I started my own teaching career as a high school English teacher, I returned to these two memories at least once a semester. I could see that both teachers, instead of nurturing a big nerd into an even bigger nerd, chose to make assumptions about me and what I was capable of. They were wrong about me. What a gift!
When I was the honors English teacher, every semester, someone would come to me with a paper slip in hand, nervously asking if they could "bump" into my class. And every time, I clicked my pen, smiled, and welcomed them to class as I signed the form.
Did all of them succeed? No. But I rest easy knowing I never closed the door on anyone's chance to see what they are capable of.
Here at GCC, I don't make choices about who can take what course, but I do continue to check my assumptions about my students. The student in the back who looks like they are fiddling with their phone--maybe that student doesn't care. But maybe they are writing poetry.
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