MY TEACHER

MY TEACHERI do not recall the first time I noticed her at school, but Mrs. K was not one to blend intoa crowd. I would see her walking briskly across the school rotunda, tall and lean, wearing a skirt and a mauve-colored raincoat, holding a stuffed beige handbag in one hand, and a bright red coffee pot in the other. She seemed so confident, always looking straight ahead as she walked about school. Perhaps it was her hair that firs taught my eye. It was short, a mix of light brown and gray, combed slightly up--almost spiked. not the typical sort of hairstyle for an English teacher at our school. it set her apart and made her look dynamic. Already I knew that she was somebody special.My first day in Mrs. K's class left much to be desired. I entered to find most of my classmates just laughing and joking. The first-day-of-school jitters had become passe, and the smugness that comes with seniordom dominated room. Suddenly the chattering diminished. Mrs. K was coming.In she ambled, with her stuffed handbang and bright red coffee pt, wearing a skirt and the mauve raincoat; she was just as I had remembered. She scanned that room, and up went her right eyebrow. A most peculiar "I-know-what-you-are-up-to" smirk was our first greeting. Now I was nervous."All right, ladies and gentlemen, I want to see if you belong in my class, " she began. "Take out a pen and lots of paper. " Pause. "Some of you know you don't really belong in here, " she said, and it's time you stopped getting put in Honors English just because you passed some silly little test in second grade. Well now we're going to see what you can do. Okay now, stop and think for a moment, and get those creative juices going. I want you to write me a paper telling me the origin of the English language. You can be as creative as you want. Make up something if you have to--two cavemen grunting at each other, I don't care. You have until the end of the period. Go. "It was not the most encouraging welcome. For a moment the whole class just sort of slumped in their seats, drained suddenly of all vitality and hopes of a relaxed senior year. Blank faces abounded, mine included. I had no idea what to write. The origin of the English language? Being "creative" seemed too risky. What ever happened to the good old five paragraph essay with specific examples? Well I didn't have any specific examples anyway. I remember staring at a sheet of white paper, I remember staring at a sheet of white paper, then scrawling down some incoherent mumbo-jumbo. What a first day.Fortunately, that first day with Mars. K would not be my last. Although the class size shrunk the following days as some students ran or their academic lives, I was not prepared to leave. I knew Mrs. K's class would be an arduous English journey, but I could never let myself miss it. It would be a journey well worth taking.As the weeks continued, tidbits of Mrs. K's colorful past and philosophy about life would somehow always creep into lectures and class discussions. We found out she had served as a volunteer nurse in a combat hospital in Japan. During the 60s a wilder Mrs. K could be seen cruising the streets of San Francisco on motorcycle, decked out in long spiked boosts and short spiked hair. And there was a running joke about her age. Mrs. K could not be much less than 45, but she was forever 28.I would come to deeply trust and respect this eccentric lady. I guess I have Oedipus Rex to thank for our first class meeting. We had to compose an extensive essay on the OedipusTrilogy, on which much of our semester grade would be based. Foolishly, I chose to write on the most abstract topic, predestination and divine justice. I toiled for days, torturing myself trying to come up with some definitive conclusions. Finally, I realized my struggle was merely carrying my mind farther and farther adrift in a sea of confusion. I needed someone to rescue me; I needed Mrs. K.We arranged to meet in the small room of teachers with red pens at work and administrators shooting the breeze over lunch. I crept inside with notes in hand and took a seat. She soon arrived, holding a tuna-on-wheat, a chocolate chip cookie, and the red coffee pot. "I hope you don't mind if I eat while we talk, " she said, "but if you do, I'm going to eat anyway." Smile.We talked the whole lunch period. I felt awkward at first, actually struggling to explain why I'd been struggling with the assignment. But then Mrs. K the Mentor emerged--soft spoken, introspective, wise. I opened up to her. We sat beside each other at that table, reflecting on predestination, divine justice, and life. A ray of sunshine cut through clouds of confusion. tow days and two drafts later, I had gained more than just a deep understanding of Oedipus Rex: I had gained a friend. What was it about this woman that enabled me to reveal a different part of myself? Never before had I spoken so openly about my thoughts, or about myself. Most people did not understand my cares and thoughts. But she understood.I would go back to that room many afternoons later to sort my thought. To her I was no longer Erick but Hamlet, because of my pensive and complex nature. "Okay hamlet, what's on your mind?" our conversations would begin. Every writing assignment became an excuse to spend time after school talking and reflecting, me at the wooden table, her at her stool. We digressed on everything from Paradise Lost to Shakespeare to "The Road Not Taken. " Often I would learn about more than just literature: "Life's not black and white, its' a hazy gray, and you've always got to use that wonderful piece of machinery God gave you and question things because nothing is clear-cut. " I noticed my perceptions changing, as well as my writing style. More of my character entered my writing, and being "creative" no longer seemed risky. She told me to put more of myself into my creations, and I listened.One afternoon near the end of my senior year, I asked her about her favorite novel. "OH, without a doubt, Les Miserables, " She replied. "but I never could find an unedited version. " On Graduation Day, in a sea of seniors hugging one another, red and blue mortarboards sailing through the air, I searched through the crowd for Mrs. K and handed her a small box. Inside with a long thank-you on the cover was a new copy of Les Miserables, unedited and unabridged.I doubt that I will come across many others like Mrs. K. Only she would sit with me one-one-one, and review every minute detail of a draft. Only she would give up an afternoon just to shoot the breeze. Only she could I call a mentor, a confidant, and a friend. I still think of Mrs. K. Sometimes, when the pressures of college come crashing down, and the order of life seems to have run amok, I go to my room and slowly close the door and my eyes, sit down, and talk with Mrs. K."Okay Hamlet, what's on your mind…"。