Two women in my life represent the main reasons I hate to
see powerful forces setting about to destroy our public school systems.
One was named Mildred Trulock. She taught me English and
other wonderful things in the 7th grade. She died early from cancer
at age 59.
The other was named Doris Morgan. She taught me English in
the 11th grade and journalism in the 12th. She lived into
old age before succumbing to Alzheimer’s.
Both put up with my foolishness. Somewhere along the line
they instilled in me a need to read and learn. I’m sure they found me far from
a good student, but they minimized my nonsense, often using a word that I have
rarely, if ever, heard anyone other than a teacher use: “provoke,” as in, “don’t
provoke me further.”
And I’m sure I did. For some reason, Mrs. Trulock ignored it
and turned me toward reading Charles Dickens. When she caught me reading
someone else, say Hemingway, she would observe, “Well there are some elements
of his writing that you’re not emotionally prepared for yet, but I suppose it’s
okay.”
Mrs. Morgan set a high standard, expecting my fellow
students and me to read and discuss such classics as Moby Dick and Heart of
Darkness. Later, she taught me not to use sarcasm in serious reporting. She
singlehandedly got Overton Anderson and me into the National Honor Society. I
can imagine that, at least on my part, that, took some high-level
filibustering.
I never told Mrs. Trulock how much she mattered in my life,
but I expect she knew. I’m proud to say that, before Mrs. Morgan took sick, I
began writing short stories. Sometime in the early 1990s, I packed up several
and mailed them to her with a note saying her efforts hadn’t gone completely in
vain.
Gosh almighty! A week later, she tracked me down by phone and
complimented the daylights out of me. That meant more to me than a Pulitzer
might have. Well, almost.
She had even passed the stories around to the other women in
the retirement home with all the pride of a mother whose son had just made the
honor role for the first time.
Of all things, she laughed and said, “I had to explain to
some of them what a ‘stump-broke cow’ is.” See, she grew up on a ranch in
Montana and was quite the cowgirl when she was young. She knew things some of
her peers didn’t, probably some things I’ve never known.
I say this all in support of public school teachers. I have
friends and acquaintances who received superb educations at private or
religious schools, but I only have the experience of public ones. I think they,
and their teachers, are national treasures. I only wish that the billionaires
trying to privatize them would redirect their vast fortunes toward bolstering
our existing schools instead.
I know those were different times during which these
wonderful women touched my lives. School populations were more homogenous. Life
was slower. A good part of education was devoted to building character as
opposed to certifying kids for jobs or post-secondary endeavors. Children didn’t
have to make the terrible choices they must make today, including whether to
join a gang or try drugs. I’ll be the first to admit, though, that sneaking
away down to the ravine to smoke a Camel was a perennial temptation.
We took tests in those days to see if we were learning
anything, not to determine our future roles in life. A Mildred Trulock or Doris
Morgan would have time to apply a little molding to young minds. Life was
calmer. Students provoked their teachers back in the day. They didn’t beat or
stab them.
Were times that much better? I don’t know. Old-age gilds and
glitterizes the past. Times certainly weren’t better for my African-American
brothers and sisters. They weren’t allowed to attend school with us.
All I know is that attending a public school did me no personal
harm. Hell, that’s where I met Penny Perdue, who, I’m proud to say, still calls
me her friend. As the ladies Trulock and Morgan would want me to say, “Be still
my beating heart.”
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| Just remembering. |
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