Dear Kindergarten Teacher,
Five years old was a long, long time ago. I remember my kindergarten teacher’s name: Mrs. Nalty.
Beyond that, I can’t remember a single outfit she wore or a lesson she taught. If you asked me what her favorite holiday was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, nor could I describe the perfume she wore.
Truthfully, one of the only things I remember about kindergarten was a boy named Lester who stared at the ceiling when he colored his pumpkins. There were stray lines all over the page. It wasn’t his best work for sure. I would have alerted someone in authority, but it seemed like they were pretty on top of the concern. A whole team of folks entered the room in lab coats with clipboards. I was a nosey five year old. I wanted to know what they were writing on those clipboards. Something told me it wasn’t good. I never found out, but even if I had, I probably wouldn’t remember.
I wonder if other people’s memories are as splintered as my own. I remember the odd things I should forget like Lester’s bizarre coloring skills, but I forget the things I should remember like all the love and attention Mrs. Nalty put into making our class Christmas party memorable. I’m assuming we had one, but again, I have no recollection.
Still, there is a remembrance deeper than a special song we likely sang to remember our ABC’s or a favorite children’s book that she undoubtedly read us.
Thirty five years later, there is not one set memory that defines Mrs. Nalty as being the person who hung the moon for me.
I don’t know how she did it or with what, but I know she did, and that was, and still is, enough for me.
If I could go back, I would spend less time inquiring about what was written on those pointless clipboards, and I would spend more time analyzing what was written across her face that made me feel like the luckiest, little girl who ever lived.
I’ve spent over half my life trying to lasso that feeling, so I can give other boys and girls the same gift she gave me.
It was the gift of making me feel like I wanted to color the best, dang pumpkins she had ever seen. Better still, it was the gift of making me feel like I was her all-time favorite student, but my suspicion is Lester felt the same way.
And if that isn’t the trademark of what makes a teacher extraordinary, then what is?
-CDB