Confessions of an English Major

I've always loved English, or what they like to call Reading in the elementary schools. I was always pretty good at it, but it wasn't until 9th grade, with me a new kid in Florida, that I can remember an English teacher who made an impact on my desire to one day be a writer and teacher. Mrs. E was a round woman-- her long flowy skirts and tucked in over her ample bosom tops emphasized her less than 5'3" height. She was always moving, never still in front of the class-- whether this was because she was energetic or to keep us awake, I don't know. Her brown hair was just short of curly, and probably drove her crazy by frizzing every time the weather went bad. She wore round thick eyeglasses from which you could see her intense black lash fringed eyes demanding of you whenever she looked your way. She used to hate the phrase "a lot"-- if it made its appearance in your paper, it would come back circled in several red loops as she queried: "what kind of a lot? A corner lot? A vacant lot?" She was tough on us about grammar-- we did not get away with anything and even my A papers came back with dozens of red ink comments and circled errors. I think of her when I am grading student papers (but not usually in the dreaded red ink) and when students thank me for all the feedback, which many teachers don't bother giving, I am glad again to have met Mrs. E.

When we watched Romeo & Juliet, the 1968 fairly tame Zeffirelli version, which we watched on a film strip rather than a videotape, she stood and blocked the screen with her body during the scene where you can very briefly see Romeo's butt as he leaves Juliet in the early morning. We all laughed because at 14 or so, we had certainly seen worse on regular TV, but Mrs. E was a very conservative Christian, and she was certainly having none of boy butt on our movie screen. It was probably one of the most interesting moments for us. (why English teachers persist in believing that merely because Romeo & Juliet are teens that young kids will "relate" and therefore get into the movie is beyond me.)

Mrs. E used to give fun creative assignments-- "write a creative piece where you describe a sunrise without using the words the sun came up". I remember that one as one of the first times ever an English teacher read my piece in front of the class. I sat with my head down, happy/embarrassed tears in the corners of my eyes, face beet red. From that moment on, a kid who rarely got attention in class wanted desperately to make her happy with other assignments. I wrote a piece that described defeating my messy closet as though I were the Knight and the closet were the fearsome dragon. That one got another public reading from Mrs. E. She used to drive home the phrase "Show me! Don't Tell me!" I use it even when I'm talking about expository essays today.

Mrs. E was getting her Master's degree at night school, and as one of her projects one semester, she wanted to interview kids with divorced parents. I was chosen to be interviewed on camera for her project, and I remember wearing my sister's pink dress, which Judy hated me stealing, and which was really a bit too big for me. I must have looked like a waif-- wide brown eyes, very short boyish haircut and hot pink fuschia girly dress. I told Mrs. E how my dad never paid child support. I don't really remember what else the questions were about or how I answered them, but having been in grad school Education classes myself since then, I'm pretty sure that I was probably an example of a kid with potential who was struggling, and I'm sure my waifish big eyes made a big impact. I was just happy to get the attention from my favorite, if hard, teacher.


Mrs. E left the junior high the year after my class moved on to high school. She and her husband took her several children to Africa where they became Christian missionaries. I never really heard anything more about her, but when I read the excellent "showing not telling" book The Poisonwood Bible several years ago, it was partly Mrs. E's face I saw when the mother was described. The tough but loving strength of a woman who believed in her own convictions in the faces of jaded 80s teens.

I wish I could tell her that she is one of the first of many English teachers who are partly responsible for my own path down the road to low pay and stacks of essays to grade. And that I love and respect and sometimes emulate her for it. (I don't, however, have a problem with my students seeing Romeo's butt.)