Dear Best Teacher Ever,
When I was in kindergarten, I was barely starting my race of life. I don't remember much about that first lap, except our end of the year play, which was titled, "When I Grow Up." We each recited our lines on cue. My line was, "When I grow up I want to be a teacher, so I can teach the children the golden rule." Above all, I hope I treated them the way she always treated me.
In fourth grade, I wrote a story about a curly-headed boy who worked a math problem incorrectly at the board and hung his head in shame. My sister illustrated it. My teacher said it made her laugh. I was so proud of that mile marker.
In seventh grade, at her prompting, I decided to start a journal. I continued journal writing every day for 15 years. Many of those faded and mildewed entries are tributes to the way she made me feel - important, valued, talented. It was a great way to mark each step.
In ninth grade, she took a red pen to my short story for the Alabama Penmanship contest and butchered it like a drunk surgeon performing an appendectomy. When I asked her about all the corrections, she said it was a good sign. It meant there was something worth correcting. Without her adjustments to my form, I never would have won first place in the state, and when you're fifteen, winning $100 for a piece of writing is as good as winning the Powerball.
In tenth grade, she had me draw random topics out of a hat. She called it, "Show, Don't Tell." My topic was "a boy panics because he can't remember his lines for a play." If the description was flat, she was not going to let it slide. I am grateful for those drills.
In my final year of high school, she read my speech for graduation and taught me how to weave a running metaphor from the intro all the way to the conclusion, and by a running metaphor, I truly mean, a running metaphor. It was about Wilma Rudolph, the Olympic runner, who overcame polio to win not one, but three, Olympic gold medals.
In college, I wrote a short story for the Clifford and Virginia Durr lecture series. This time there were fewer corrections in red, a testament that her investment was starting to pay off. I should have given her the prize money. I am ashamed to say I never did. When you're a broke college kid, $500 for a piece of writing is as good as winning the Powerball, but it doesn't go far.
Tonight she's probably adjusting the font size on her smartphone to the maximum enlargement in order to read this blog. Macular degeneration is a cruel disorder for an avid reader. If she's reading this, I know she's resisting the urge to break out her ruthless, bloody pen of correction. Before she does, I would like to say something.
Momma, I know I've made some mistakes along the way, but I hope you are proud that I am still running the race. No doubt, I've had some good teachers, but even without a degree, you surpass them all. Thank you for teaching me how to treat the children, how to keep humor at the heart of every story, how to keep a record of each day, how to accept correction, how to show rather than tell, how to keep running, and most of all, how to marvel at the wonder of a simple, but very good life.
Every step of every mile was because of you. Thank you for staying the course with me all these years and for being the best writing teacher I've ever had. I sure do love you.
It really has been a wonderful life, hasn't it?
-CDB
P.S. I still owe you $500.