By John Carlson—
Recently I became aware that I had failed to observe Teacher Appreciation Week.
Now, as we all know, these are days when darned near everything has an Appreciation Week, and many of them seem pretty iffy. Paper Clips Appreciation Week. Cicada Killer Insect Spray Appreciation Week, which is probably in the works. And somewhere out there is surely a week called Broccoli Appreciation Week, which I choose not to celebrate.
But Teacher Appreciation Week is another matter entirely.
As for my favorite teacher, I needn’t look far. Having been married to Nancy for thirty-eight years, I am always amazed by the number of former students who contact her to say what a positive and even profound influence she had on their lives.
On the other hand, I’ve had a regrettable experience with one profoundly ignorant teacher.
That teacher, unfortunately, was me.
The problem began at a familiar university hereabouts, which shall go unnamed. Earlier I had taught a class there called Feature Writing, which was about feature writing, and it turned out fine. Then I stupidly mistook a class called Basic News Writing for being about basic news writing. As a veteran newspaperman, I figured I could teach this class standing on one foot, blindfolded, with both hands tied behind my back. Then I discovered the class should have been named Everything You Hate About Grammar or something. Having been raised by parents who spoke the King’s English, I knew how to talk good … err, I mean well. But I didn’t know a dangling participle from a semi-colon, both of which I’d have guessed were problems best discussed with your proctologist.
Anyway, I was a disaster. Let’s just say if the university’s computer system ever detects me filling out another teacher application, those sirens blaring across the campus won’t be warning school administrators that a tornado is coming.
But I’ve had great teachers, too.
One who always comes to mind was a wizened, little professor of Old Testament studies, a guy who couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. On hot summer days, Dr. Heath hobbled about Taylor University’s campus in a winter coat, stacks of books under both arms. Put him in front of a classroom full of students, though, and he brought those olden days to life, maybe because he seemed ancient enough to have been around then himself.
I’d have gladly paid admission at the door to attend his lectures.
But my favorite teacher, at least that I haven’t been married to, was back in high school in 1967 or ‘68. Her name was Miss Waratinsky, but that is a phonetic spelling. This being up in the ethnic melting pot known as the Greater Cleveland area, fully half the people had last names comprised of ten to fourteen letters, with up to eighty percent of those letters being consonants.
It wasn’t like I had my heart set on taking her class. Having signed up for a popular speech class, its teacher sternly warned us from the start it would be the most challenging class we’d ever taken. If we weren’t prepared to work our tails off, he advised, we’d best walk out right then and there.
So I did.
The only alternative was creative writing, taught by Miss Waratinsky. Having received my first F on a report card in English back in seventh grade, the notion of this class also intimidated me, but two weeks later I was in love with it.
Miss Waratinsky was friendly, funny and nurturing, and after offering her guidance let her students write what they wished. As an airplane nut who was already flying, my pieces often involved imaginary aerial dogfights, with bullets blasting through the canopy of my fictional F-6-F Hellcat as I was jumped by swarms of Japanese fighter planes called Zeroes. Plus, as a Baptist kid who chafed under what I considered unreasonable rules of conduct (We don’t smoke, drink, dance, go to movies or chew, and we don’t go with girls who do!) I took delight in cramming all the cuss words I could stuff into my stories’ dialogues.
You know, like ….
“Dang!!!!” I screamed as the tracers whizzed inches past my head, wracking the stick hard left to get the Zero in my sights as I thumbed the trigger. “Peeve me off, will ya??? Eat bullets, you miserable hunk of slime!!!!
Except, of course, I didn’t use “dang” or “peeve” or “slime.” In fact, on occasion I even employed a couple “fudges,” like Ralphie does in “A Christmas Story” during the tire-changing scene. And the fact was, it felt great to be just one of the gang flexing my literary muscles, taking exceptional pride in every dirty word I dropped.
There was just one thing I hadn’t counted on.
“Don’t forget!” Miss Waratinsky reminded us one morning. “Parent-Teacher Conferences are next week, and I can’t wait to show your moms and dads how good you’re all doing!!!”
Stunned, I was up you-know-what creek without a paddle. Still, somehow Miss Waratinsky smoothed things over with my parents, who eventually decided against disowning me and sending me to reform school.
Fifty-five years later, pondering my high school education, I’m well aware of the impact that special teacher and her special class had on what would turn out to be my occupation and, really, the rest of my life.
As for appreciating our teachers, I’m all for it. We owe them a lot more than mere lip service, though. It’s way past time for us to treat them commensurately with the important nature of their work, which is nothing less than instilling the promise, hope and ability necessary to advance our country, our world.
Meanwhile, would I like to take another crack at teaching students?
No way in … ummm … heck.
John’s weekly columns are sponsored by Beasley & Gilkison, Muncie’s trusted attorneys for over 120 years.
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A former longtime feature writer and columnist for The Star Press in Muncie, Indiana, John Carlson is a storyteller with an unflagging appreciation for the wonderful people of East Central Indiana and the tales of their lives, be they funny, poignant, inspirational or all three. John’s columns appear on MuncieJournal.com every Friday.
