“So how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume? It isn’t easy, but I’ll try . . .”
It was Tuesday, May 6, 1968 as I recall and I was in the 9th grade. School was dismissed at noon that day and all of the students were pretty happy about that. Someone picked me up—I’m not sure who—but I remember looking out of the car window, sensing the irony of the happiness around me along with my own internal pain. My mother was employed by the school as a secretary and classes were finished at noon that day so the staff could attend my father’s funeral. So it was a “bittersweet” day—sweet for most of the students, but pretty bitter for me and my family.
I think most adults would agree that middle school is pretty tough on a kid and that certainly was true for me. Elementary school had its challenges, so did high school and college, but middle school was a unique experience. The transition from “crayons to perfume” was a difficult one—a time when the course of my life was determined. Because of my father’s illness and the effect it had on my family, I looked to any influential adult for guidance, consistency and attention. The constant adults in my life were my teachers.
Looking back more than forty years now, it’s interesting to analyze how my life was affected by circumstance and by people. People win, hands down. The stuff that happened was out of my control, but the adults in my life showed up when I needed them. I can picture all of the classrooms in the Middle School building and I can tell you which teachers occupied each one of them. I can’t tell you exactly what they taught—but I can tell you their names, who they were as people and how they helped to shape my life.
One of them made me feel extraordinarily special by signing my yearbook, “to my favorite student.” (I can prove it because I still have the yearbook.) One of them decided to not allow “couples” to share seats on the bus on our eighth grade trip to Lansing. That sure took a lot of pressure off those of us who hadn’t been “invited” by one of the boys to sit with them. Another one whose enthusiasm inspired me to be interested in politics, helped me realize at a young age that it was possible to be a liberal and a Christian. One teacher introduced C.S. Lewis to me by reading “The Screwtape Letters” aloud to us. It was a little complicated and hard to understand, but he’s one of my favorite writers today.
Someone else, knowing that my family was broke, donated $5.00 so that I would have some spending money for our 9th grade trip to Chicago—I’m sure it was one of my teachers. (So . . . whoever you are . . . I bought two pairs of earrings and a book about Bobby Kenedy with the money.) My dad passed away during the night on May 3, the day of that 9th grade class trip. My mom encouraged me to still go so I did. When I stepped on to the bus, all of the students were quiet and respectful because one of my teachers had already told them the news that I was unable to share.
The list could go on because I have many more memories. It’s really not about what they taught or about what they did as much as it’s about who they were as people. My teachers were not perfect—but they cared about us and they cared about me. I needed them and I needed their authenticity and they came through for me. I have not forgotten them. I’ve reconnected with a few of them lately and they are still the same people of character and integrity that they were then—there have been no surprises.
“So . . . how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume?” I hope I just did, but if not; thank you Mr. Klynn, Mr. Ritsema, Mrs. Woodwyk, Mr. Boonstra, Miss Bielema, Mr. Boersma, Mr. Wallinga, Mr. Huizinga and Mr. Knot! Hopefully someday I can thank you all personally.
