Teachers that Mattered
From grades 1-12, I had a handful of teachers who motivated me in different ways. Each one was unique and memorable. Each left a mark that served me well.
I was a child who didn’t adapt well to classroom discipline. By the third grade, I was taught to behave by my teacher, who made me stay late and write *I will not talk during class * an increasing number of times until I learned to behave.
Ms. Ginther taught me the hard way because I was stubborn. She never raised her voice. When I interrupted class, she calmly told me how many times I had to write the sentence on the chalkboard. Staying thirty minutes after school ended—writing I will not talk during class one hundred times civilized my behavior.
My eighth-grade English teacher was Mr. Black. He was a mild-mannered man. Mr. Black’s class was the first time I was given a writing assignment that required several days to complete. We had to read a poem and interpret what the author was conveying. I was assigned The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe.
Reading for pleasure wasn’t a habit I developed. This assignment sparked my interest in reading. Writing this paper was a trial. I didn’t think my work was good, but I was proud because I stuck to it with intensity. He gave me an “A” and included a note on my paper asking me to stay after class. He wanted to ask me a question about my work. The question was—could he keep my paper? He told me it inspired him because I had listened to his instructions and delivered excellent work. He had enjoyed my paper more than any he’s read in his teaching career. I was shocked. I told him he could keep it. Mr. Black was the first teacher who triggered pride in my work.
In tenth grade, I had a history teacher, an Irishman named Mr. Donoghue. He was a fine storyteller while inspiring my interest in history. His Irish accent sounded friendly. He could hold my attention with his accent alone. Every class started with a story. He greeted us on the first day of his class with:
You will cross my threshold (he pronounced it TRESHhold) with a smile on your face, because my class is a happy class. When you grow up, visit me in Otis, Indiana, and I will buy you a cigar. You will tell me what you have accomplished in life.
I never went to Otis, but I’ve thought of him every year since.
I took a history class taught by Mr. Coblentz during my junior year of high school. The class focused on World War II. We called him The Baron Von Coblentz because he was an expert on Nazi Germany. Mr. Coblentz had a large collection of Nazi artifacts that he brought to class and allowed us to hold. He would answer all our questions in the most interesting ways. The Baron was tall and stout. He lived on a farm outside of town. I imagined him lifting heavy things in a barn. Before every test, he would smile at us and say, ”…and now, the scholars shall play!” I loved that line.
Mr. Fox was my senior year English teacher. Everyone disliked his class because it was time-consuming and hard work. He assigned a typewritten, twenty-page term paper. Students used this assignment as an excuse for incomplete work in other classes. Teachers complained, but he did not bend.
I don’t remember what I wrote about, but I do remember receiving a grade of “C” with red marks indicating my poor command of grammar and bad punctuation. I felt happy to survive his class. It was not enjoyable.
I didn’t realize the value of Mr. Fox until I went to university and took first-year English. I had to produce a 30-page, typed paper. Mr. Fox prepared me well. I was one of a handful of students receiving an A on my paper. I credit Mr. Fox. His class was more demanding than any of my university courses.
These teachers treated me as an individual. They set high expectations, and they shaped my behavior in positive ways. I was blessed to learn from their experience and wisdom. Their classes felt like personal excursions. They aimed to inspire.