In first grade, I had Mrs. Hess. A kind woman with wavy, soft brown hair and a predilection for floor-length jumpers, she was the ideal elementary school teacher. I don't recall much that I actually learned in first grade, but what Mrs. Hess did do that was incredibly affecting was open herself up to her students as a person. She knew me. She knew that I was incredibly shy but that if given time and encouragement, I would blossom. She let me sit next to my best friend, Emily Tate, so that we could giggle and have to get separated. She told me she liked me and that I was one of her favorite students, which gave me confidence. She told me about her bald husband, who, I still remember vividly, had just had a minor heart attack and was recovering, so he couldn't eat bacon. Mrs. Hess' parents lived in my neighborhood, so I saw her at Halloween as she handed me a twix, a young bride nervous and excited to see her teacher outside of school. Mrs. Hess was a real person and her interactions with me were real. I was not just a random student, I was Ansley, a shy sweet little girl who may have some potential someday. It is so important to treat every student as they are, to encourage them in their particularities and to open one's self up to them, no matter if they're in college or 6. Mrs. Hess let me enter into her life, her family, her intellectual journey as a young child--I am still grateful.
When I wasn't in Mrs. Hess' classroom, I went down the hall for 'Challenge' with Ms. Furst. She was a character. A small Jewish woman with strong perfume and a strong personality, Ms. Furst was indomitable. She was probably in her late 50s/early 60s with jet black hair and biting wit. She was full of passion and taught out of a desire to foster creativity and genius. In her classroom, I did art projects and special reading, I penned the great American classic "Linlee and the Dragon," and I attempted logic puzzles (if you know me, you know that did not go well.) Ms. Furst would grab me by the shoulders and tell me to let my imagination wander, to think deeply and ask questions. I was, of course, a little bit afraid of her, but I also admired and loved her. She used to tell me I was gifted, to call me names in Yiddish and tell stories that dazzled my mind. Ms. Furst taught me the beauty to be found in eccentricity, in creativity, in humor. Wherever you are, Ms. Furst, you are a mensch, and a gift to me!
When I was in third grade, and beginning to reflect on my young life, I asked my mom if we could have a brunch for all my favorite teachers thus far. Probably 5 ladies came to my house for fruit and muffins and niceties. Mrs. Hess and Ms. Furst were definitely there. These were women committed not only to educate me within the confines of the cinderblock school, but who made a personal connection with their students, and gave up a Saturday morning to come over to my house, ask me questions, and comment on my photos on the fridge. Exceptional teachers are usually exceptionally generous people who see beyond their job into the realm of relationships--they care about their students as individuals and, amidst the frustration and fatigue, love them.
There are undoubtedly many more wonderful stories from my elementary years. Also, coming of age in an Atlanta metro public school, there are less wonderful stories--of immigrant kids with only one outfit to wear, of terrifyingly activist teachers with a political agenda to instill in the nation's youngest citizens, of violence on the school bus, of a whole host of racial slurs, of (confusingly) unmarried but pregnant teachers (try explaining that one to a 6 year old).
But, for today, let us be content with brunch with Mrs. Hess and Ms. Furst, two of the greatest teachers of my life.
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