The Path Taken
It was a sanctuary, all that lay beyond the threshold of Room One Hundred Twelve. Creative writing of students past covered the walls, like verdant, long-forgotten vines. Sprouting from every crack and corner were quotes from famous authors and the wisdom of scholars. Tumbling from the shelves were books in every genre; some with jackets antiqued and timeworn, others as vibrant as spring flowers. A pink marabou lamp-shade, flamingo-like, tucked away in a corner, flaunted a touch of humor and irony. A literary secret garden spread before me, and a magnetic life force attracted me further inside her classroom.
Fond recollections of kindergarden reading circles and sitting “indian style” flooded over me. My heart beat with the remembered cadence of my teacher’s voice as she shared the stories that inspired my love affair with reading. Memories of saccharin Mother’s Day cards inscribed with first poems and first attempts at expressing deep emotion turned up the corners of my mouth. The smell of rubber erasers and chalk dust fleetingly brought back the thrill of pencil lead tracing broken loop-de-loop lines to reveal the cursive “S” that I so proudly mastered. But this elementary school revelry was short lived. Like thorns and briars grown awry, melancholy insidiously strangled out my sunlit memories, allowing in those not as hospitable.
Being assigned to reading circle “B” rather than “A” brought back feelings of shame that blushed my cheeks as if sitting in reading circle “B” occurred yesterday. Retrieving memories of red letter grades from the interior darkness of my laminated desktop held the power of incrimination of years ago. Acceptance came with A’s and happy faces. Believing in yourself accompanied B’s and B pluses. C’s had a way of convincing you that you just weren’t one of those really smart kids. Grades were like silent reprimands; a sharp inner sting followed by a slow burning ache. I ached for the grade school ebullience that lay dormant and forgotten behind the protective high wall that I had constructed.
My sophomore English teacher’s first day introductions drew my attention back to the present. Taking priority placement at the front of the classroom was a poster suggesting, “Do not fear fear itself, instead engage it and make something out of it”. As she shared her personal reflections on this mantra a feeling of freedom permeated the classroom; freedom from conventions, failure, and judgement. A nagging seed of conviction planted itself in my conscience and began a thrilling period of rapid growth, rediscovery, and transformation.
I learned to view failure and imperfection as stepping stones rather than impediments. Each experience teaches us something new and furthers self acceptance and discovery. Most importantly, I learned to ask the question: “What am I really afraid of?” Now, the answer usually makes me laugh as I realize that I have allowed the “supposed” fear to loom irrationally large in my imagination. Naming fear shrinks it to a realistic size giving us the ability to understand where it comes from and how to move beyond it.
But the best part of that year was realizing how much I want to become a teacher myself. What could be more important than helping children realize their individual gifts and how they can contribute them to the world. Like Mrs. Banda, I want to inspire the next generation, recognizing the uniqueness of each person’s style of learning and endow them with a fearless sense of their own worth. There is no greater equalizer than education and I believe that every child should have access to exceptional teachers and educational opportunities. We all need those people in our lives that enable us to remove the obstacles in our paths to becoming lifetime learners. The highest honor would be to follow in the footsteps of Mrs. Banda by becoming not only a school teacher, but a nurturer of the soul.
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