English Woman

If you live in Kansas and pay attention to politics, then you may have noticed the struggle going on between the conservative House of Representatives and the Kansas teacher's union. Sadly, the true value of teachers is being missed in the fight.

There is a well known adage: "if you can read this, thank a teacher." When looking back, I would bet most folks can recall at least one teacher who made an impact. Personally, I've never had to stop to wonder who that teacher was. She has held top honors from the first day I walked into her English classroom.

I like to read. Actually, I love to read. There have been nights when I couldn't stop reading, looking at the clock as it moved from midnight to two o'clock, telling my self "just one more chapter and then I've GOT to stop". Then, bleary eyed, glancing at the time and deciding "to hell with it, I'm just going to finish this", because morning had arrived.

In college, a self-imposed exile from reading for pleasure became vital because I simply lacked the self control to complete assignments if under the spell of a good novel. As a professional, it was necessary to quit bringing books to work because I'd start reading during a break and struggle to put the words away, long after time had been stolen from my employer. During one such episode, I was deeply ashamed when the Director himself caught me red-handed buried in a book. He shared, blessedly, that he too was a reader.

I became an expert at feeding the addiction while getting ready in the morning. I would simply sit on the bathroom floor and hold the book open with both feet while blow drying my hair. To this day I can still turn pages with my toes. This skill came in handy when nursing both of our children during those times when it was necessary to pump. Probably more information than the reader desires, but it is a shining example of the depths to which a person will go when the tight grip of Ludlum or Higgins has taken hold.

There was even a period when yours truly would use every available moment at stoplights in order to get just one or two more paragraphs completed. Being honked at still hits me like a jolt of electricity. A good book, to me, feels like a marathon that has to be completed in world record time. By reading so quickly, I most likely miss some of the enjoyment that could be gained from letting the words marinate and simmer as I read them, but then there would be no excuse to read the same book twice.

I was five years old when my grandmother started the ritual of reading to me before bedtime, a tradition carried over to my own children. To this day, I have the Little House on the Prairie set that she started me on in 1975. A true appreciation for words would not come until my freshman year of high school, when I met the One.

She was The One teacher who would open the door to English. Her name was Carla Petersen and she never stayed at a school for very long. Miss Petersen arrived at my high school in 1981, and most of us didn't know what to make of her. Carla's physical appearance was the first thing her students would notice and, for me, the first thing I would forget once the teaching began. She was short with a solid torso as round as a medicine ball and legs of solid muscle. Her nose was pert and round, her hair short and wild and curly. Carla's figure was deceiving, as we found out once basketball season began. She would assist our team that year, and I had never seen a grown woman move as fast as Miss Petersen when she got down low to demonstrate a defensive stance. Our English class saw her move that quickly on another occasion, when her passionate temper roared at a desrespectful student. Carla's eyes could burn with intensity or crinkle in humor, but her commitment and devotion to teaching the English language was never, ever, in doubt.

Was she Robin Williams in "Dead Poets Society"? Of course not, but that movie was fiction and we were a 1a Kansas high school, not an elite prep school. In my mind, could she have been? Absolutely. Miss Petersen introduced us to Shakespeare, Milton, Keats and yes, My Captain, Dylan Thomas. I recall sensing that within Beowulf there had to be something deep and intellectual because SHE was teaching it. As homage to those introductions, the very textbook she used still claims a spot on my bookshelf.

I was a summer custodian for our school between the 11th and 12th grades and couldn't deny the compulsion to keep that worn, frayed, and soon to be retired text book forever, to remember the VHS's she brought in so that we could see the words and fervor the actors displayed as they attempted to do justice to those timeless pieces of work.

Was Carla a good English teacher? Hell yes. She taught us the rules and regulations of grammar but she also taught us that literature is a universe of ideas and stories that not only add to the fabric of everything around us, it is the fabric of our history. This ability is not what made her a great teacher, though. The thing that made her elite, and the quality within all of those who carry the distinction of "having made a difference", is that she paid attention to what was going on in the personal and sometimes hidden world of her young students.

A participant in just about every activity offered in school, I was good at most of those things and liked by almost all of my peers. The perjorative, in my mind, would be "popular" (why does that word make me think immediately of Kristin Chenowith?). Being liked and active didn't prevent doubts and insecurities from assailing me on a personal level, trauma carried from very early formative years, unrecognized but prevalent nontheless. Carla saw pieces of this and found a way to push her student while providing a supportive and caring base. Not only would this teacher not leave our school in one or two years, as was her pattern, she gave us the greatest gift of all by waiting until we graduated and had reaped the full benefit of a solid four years under her tutelage.

High school was easy for me until the final year, when low self-esteem and poor choices began to manifest themselves in questionable behavior. When looking back, most of what I remember is the drama and struggles that were internal and not apparent to others who were most likely fighting their own battles. By May of 1987, the last month of school, I was drowning under the weight of low self-esteem, poor choices and borderline destructive behavior.

Just before graduation, however, Carla Petersen presented me with a hand-made scrapbook (long before the scrapbooking rage would enslave American mothers). In it, she listed every accomplishment I had achieved during the previous school year. How did she know that I needed this? Something that said "you have done wonderful things and you will go on to do even more amazing things"? This incredible teacher had cut clippings from local papers all year long, highlighted my name in them, and written in the margins details from Student Council events, Homecomings, and fund raisers. At the end, she wrote a personal note, stating that her admiration and respect belonged to me. I still have that scrapbook, Carla.

For this student you were the One. Because of you, I received A's in nearly every college English course and tackling the likes of Dreiser and Chestnutt were far from intimidating. Because of you, one of the most important experiences in my professional career was a program called "Changing Lives Through Literature" and through that I was blessed with the friendship of two amazing librarians. This reading program provided an outlet for struggling young boys and girls, in the grip of the criminal justice system, who needed a way to talk about their own lives by using surrogate fictional characters. Because of the memories you preserved from the year I was Student Council President, I was gifted a reminder of why maybe, just maybe, I could be a decent State Representative. How could you have known that 25 years later your student would need that scrapbook to tackle one of the biggest challenges of her life? You didn't, but you had faith in me because you paid attention and because you cared. I write all of this to honor you, Miss Petersen, and to thank you for being the One who made a difference.