Feeling seen

I found out my Grade 12 English teacher passed away. I never would have known if I hadn’t stumbled upon an old local newspaper while visiting my mom back home. I literally have not seen the man since I walked out of his classroom, and I can’t even begin to calculate how many years ago that was. Well, I could calculate it, but why? I hate Math.

He had been in the same nursing home as my Father-in-law, in the same small town I grew up in, located on Dufferin Ave, the same street where I had once lived. It was sort of a gut punch to know I have been in the same building countless times and had loads of missed opportunities to visit with him and tell how much he meant to me.

In my head, he was much too young and spry to ever be in a home. When I left town 27 years ago (fine, I mathed), everything and everyone froze in time. If I knew you then and I haven’t seen you since, then to me you haven’t aged.

You’re welcome.

Over those years memories of him would flood my consciousness ever so often, but when technology took over and we entered the world of usernames, passwords and security questions I would think of him even more because he is my answer for, who was your favourite teacher?

 I can still see him bustling along the school halls all odd and quirky with his arms barely balancing all the books and binders. He walked swiftly, shoulders forward and head down lifting one hand every so often to chime out “Good Morning!” even if it was 2pm. He wore a mustache over his blotchy complexion and small wiry glasses. His clothes always slightly askew, suggested he was running late, again. I remember him always wearing two shirts, either a t-shirt/dress shirt combo, or a collared shirt with a cardigan, or my personal favourite, a long sleeved with a t-shirt over top. Always two.

Students made fun of him and in my now adult sized brain I can imagine other teachers did as well.

He would parade through the desks, animated, arms wide and spoke as if on stage reciting Hamlet, when it was likely simple sentence structure. He had a way of capturing your attention or maybe it was just me. I was a chronic day dreamer so keeping me attentive in class was a feat, Disruptive assholes were dealt with debate style, a battle of the wits. He was fluent in assholery and knew exactly what to say to dull the intensity, words are power, and he had a lot of words. He understood it’s tough to cause a problem if there isn’t an audience, so he shut them down in such a manner it was impossible to come back from without looking a fool.

If you can’t tell by now, this man left a huge impression on me. In this small-town high school, there were only a handful of teachers you were happy to get on your schedule. There was the drama teacher who threw a massive sleepover party at the end of each year for his graduating students. I never went but there were rumors of tents, bonfires and coolers of alcohol. Another teacher I hoped for and never got was the cool, pot smoking math teacher who was a closet genius. Groups of students would not so casually walk by his house after school to hear Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin rolling out of his 5ft speakers. Occasionally he would invite them in to hear his collection and talk music. I can’t really say what went on in there, but I really wanted to know.

I can admit when I saw who my English teacher was in my final semester, I was less than impressed. He seemed unpredictable and a bit out there. Where did I get the facts of this hypothesis? Just made them up with the youthful judgement of a seventeen-year-old who witnessed him weave through the corridors muttering softly to himself.

High school wasn’t my thing. My grades were average. I ignored the advice to take advanced classes because honestly, I just didn’t want to try. I wasn’t interested in university and that was the only reason one would subject themselves to taking academically challenging classes in the 80’s. My parents didn’t really seem to make it a priority and I was not a self starter. Lazy has long been a description which plagued me. Somewhere along the line, perhaps off handily and probably without malice I was told I was lazy, and I internalized it. I guess it was a recipe of not wanting to put in the effort and not expected to or pushed in any way to apply effort. Add to it a sprinkle of the fear of not measuring up, then top that shit off with, what if I succeeded? Could you imagine? What aspirations would I need to set for myself then? Best not to know.

Final year English was the exception. I could not have been more wrong about him. It was the class I never wanted to miss. He was a complete source of entertainment. The exams and projects he assigned weren’t a case of memorizing pages of notes and translating it to a multiple-choice slip using a No.2 pencil. They were creative and he understood creativity to be subjective. He marked outside the norm basing grades on initiative, improvement and imagination. Assignments were geared to individual interests. This created a level of focus I had never experienced. He saw and evaluated the bigger picture. In my opinion he was a head of his time, a bit wiser, getting to know his students on their level and how they learned best. I don’t know this for a fact but having all the information we have now about the neurodivergent brain, I wonder if he might have fit somewhere on the spectrum and therefore knew not everyone excelled under the same curriculum or approach.

He gave me the gift of validation. I was an overweight girl who wanted to disappear, yet I sought praise. I kept my head down, walked through the halls as a chubby, insecure ghost, internally screaming for someone to notice me, but terrified if they did.

Don’t get me wrong, outwardly I had many friends and was well liked; it helps when your older, cooler sister paved the way before you. I didn’t have to go through all the hazing other freshmen did because she was a senior and popular. I just lacked confidence and felt my interests were trivial. So, I kept my mouth shut.

Any sort of conflict would leave me seething in anxiety, so I didn’t participate in the common mean girl narrative. Even having a dispute or confrontation play out in my presence was too much for me. There would be loads of drama around me but somehow, I managed to remain Switzerland, a chameleon, always fitting in no matter what crowd; musicians, jocks, mean girls, stoners, nerds. Much like wallpaper, observing what was happening but not a part of.

Our end of year project will forever be a core memory. With the assignment being a good percentage of our final mark, we were to put together a proposal on anything we wanted but the topic had to be debatable. Can you imagine my initial horror? Luckily this was English class and not debate club. We were to present both sides without prejudice, but had the opportunity to conclude with an opinion piece. We were free creatively to present the project in any way we were comfortable. If you wrote an essay or added pictures or art, was completely up to the student. It could be typed on paper, handwritten in a journal or displayed on Bristol board. You could hand it in or present it to the class. It didn’t matter. Huge relief.

There was only one thing I was passionate about (besides fries and gravy) and it was lyrics. I have long been a lover of any genre of music but this blue-collar girl who grew up on Detroit rock radio was obsessed with hair metal. I mean hyper fixated, I consumed everything I could, I memorized lyrics, watched documentaries and knew everything about my favourite bands. There was a time I could tell you the middle names, birth dates and complete family hierarchy of every member of Motley Crue, Ratt or any other group on my radar. Gigantic band flags and magazine cut outs collaged and covered the entirety of the walls in my bedroom. Prizes handed out from various fair ground carnies lined a shelf over my bed. Roach clips with colourful feathers (I didn’t smoke pot) and mirrors imprinted with the imagery of a favourite album cover displayed with pride. For the record, I didn’t know those mirrors were used to prepare and snort cocaine until much later in life and even then, I saw it in a movie. I was a lover of everything rock n roll but had zero willingness to follow through with the lifestyle associated with it. The good girl who dreamed of being bad, but also wanted to be safe and reasonable. I was naïve, okay?

At the time Tipper Gore, the wife of Al Gore, the vice-president of the United States, declared herself to be an advocate of social issues and began the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) a music censorship push to stop the sale of music they deemed harmful or inappropriate. A move she took a lot of heat for. I don’t think she was anticipating or at all prepared for the war it began within the music industry. After many court appearances by artists and record executives fighting for freedom of speech her original initiative was scaled back to only placing warning stickers on album covers which I still despised. Later when I became a parent, I adjusted my stance slightly.

 I wrote the shit out of that paper. When I hyper fixated on something, (as I still do) everyone around me hears about what ever it is to the point they want to gag, so understandably I was thrilled to have a new audience. It was a full presentation on the dangers of censorship and the PMRC. I included pictures, song lyrics and a very balanced argument. It was a masterpiece. The closest thing to a thesis I would ever get to. I was so proud. It was the first time I understood I could apply myself when truly invested.

The marking of this project seemed to take forever, but in the final week of class, as he made his rounds, he placed the project on my desk and gave me a wink. It was a 98%. I willed the tears back trying to remain cool and disinterested.

On the last day of high school as I was leaving his class, he called me over and not only acknowledged the work I put in, but he validated my creativity. He told me I had an interesting and unique voice and was happy to have witnessed my connection to the written word whether in lyrics, poems or books and encouraged me to keep writing.

Did I take his advice? Obviously not, but I am now. In retrospect, that moment, which will remain one of my core memories until death or dementia was less about achievement and one hundred percent about feeling understood. I had a connection with him the first time I sat in class and in that instant, he confirmed it was real. He valued creativity. In those days, in that town, creativity was something you did has a hobby, not for a living. Your focus was getting employed and earning a living, which is maybe why I never pursued writing as a profession. But here I am back again, except this time I’m doing it because I need an outlet and if anything comes from it, then that would be a nice bonus. Along the way, if/when I doubt myself, I will remember he believed in me. Super cheesy, but it’s true.

Who was your favourite teacher?

Answer: Mr. Edwards.

Rest easy.

I need to go change my security question now.