Ode to Teachers - Good, Bad & Ugly

Like with most things in life, I had my share of ups and downs when it came to the teacher grab bag. I had some amazing teachers, who inspired me to be more and do more. I also had some unforgettables and teachers who did nothing to help my self esteem or love for learning.
First grade started with Miss. Carol Lavalle. I was in awe of this woman. She was petite and well put together. She was the stereotypical first grade teacher, the kind who wore homemade crocheted sweaters and vests the color of each holiday season. She spoke with a candy-laced voice, always sweet and affirmative in tone. It didn’t matter what a child’s potential, Miss. Lavalle made us feel like we were all special and could someday rise to becoming the president of the United States. x
Each day, Miss. Lavalle would drive in to school with her mother, Jean. I didn’t find this odd at the time, because, after all, first graders always bring their mothers with them wherever they can. Jean served as a sort-of teacher’s aide. From yarn octopuses to pompom magnets, she was always there to help us with extra doses of Elmer’s glue during craft projects or even to tie our shoes. Carol Lavalle never married, it turns out, and lived with her mother in Merrimack for as long as I kept track of them.
Second grade brought Miss. Hubbard. Miss. Hubbard quickly turned Mrs. May after her stomach began to brim with her love child. Mrs. May was a gentle teacher, soft on skin and demeanor. But something about her didn’t fit me as well as the old shoe Miss. Lavalle had felt like to me. Maybe it was the lines of tension that seemed to frame her late twenty-something face that made me nervous.
Because her pregnancy was clearly a surprise, Mrs. May wasn’t able to plan her typical teacher maternity leave beginning in early June. So much of my second grade year was filled by a handful of substitute teachers – none of them very memorable.
Third grade brought with it the most evil witch I had ever known and have ever known since. Mrs. Doupont was a hideous red head. Not the kind of charming and mysterious auburn that some Irish beauties boast of. And her red headedness didn’t come from her sense of adventure or passion for anything other than making the lives of innocent eight year old girls miserable.
From calling Mom to “tattle” on me on a weekly basis for talking too much in class, to claiming I shot her daily “looks to kill,” Mrs. Dupont had it out for me since the day I stepped into her classroom. School started on Sept. 7 that year. My birthday, being Sept. 8th, didn’t leave much time for cupcakes and a planned party – something customary to most of the third graders at Mastricola Elementary school. Instead, my big birthday surprise that year was learning that not only did Mrs. Dupont and I share an instant distaste for one another, but we also shared a birthday. Even now, in my mid thirties, I always think of that evil woman on my birthday and wonder what little girl she has made her target of manipulation and hate now.
Fourth grade brought a happy change with teachers. While I’d have settled for an elephant with horns to be out of Mrs. Dupont’s class, I was happy to land in the chubby, merry, capable and fair hands of Mrs. Dorin. Mrs. Dorin had older daughters, high school daughters. She’d been there, seen it, and wasn’t in the least intimidated for little girls with big mouths and an interest in passing notes in class. Mrs. Dorin had a robust laugh and a special place in her heart for April Fools Day and practical jokes. And it was more than one Whoopie cushion from the Zyla’s discount store that I placed under her chair.
For as “cool” as Mrs. Dorin appeared, I was surprised to learn that she’d requested special placement for me in the fifth grade. It was her intention to separate me from my then-best friend, Debbie McHugh. Apparently, she hadn’t found our jokes and chatter as endearing as I might have thought. So while Debbie was shipped off to one fifth grade class, I found myself in the homeroom of Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton.
Women who hyphenate their names make me instantly nervous. I am never sure whether they are trying to prove something or feel that I’ve somehow sold myself and my gender out by not hyphenating. Or maybe it’s just that women who hyphenate remind me of Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton. An unremarkable, plain teacher, I often wondered what made her get into teaching in the first place. She certainly didn’t seem to have any joy with teaching. Even Mrs. Dupont’s reason for teaching – to watch us squirm – made more sense to me than Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton’s. Her monotone voice ringed so much older than her 20-something years. I never could figure her out. Or, why she insisted I sit next to the class retard – otherwise now known in politically correct circles as “developmentally delayed” – Jason Osburn. And while this placement with the retainer-fiddling, spit-yielding, smelly class outcast may not have seemed like any big deal to Mrs. Plain Jane, it spurred off the beginnings of my social decline. Well, that and my budding pimples and greasy hair. For all that she didn’t impress upon me, Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton certainly left an impression via my peers when it came to the development of my self esteem...Something I wish I could have popped. I wonder, sometimes, how this effects my inner fat, skinny and in between girls...