Dear Miss Solomon: A Letter to My Teacher
Dear Miss Solomon,
You were the whip cream on my ice cream sundae, the effervescence in my soda, the shine in my mirror in my seventh-grade world. You were my English teacher in 1955. Your class was my escape from an ugly life at home. You greeted us at the door each day. “Hi, Linda. Good to see you today. Hi Joan, what a pretty dress. Walter, you got a new haircut. Nice. Betty, hello, I’m glad you have your book. So good to see you back in school, Jimmy.” Sometimes you brushed a shoulder or patted a hand as we trooped into the room and plopped in our assigned seats. Your smile exuded happiness. We were spellbound by you, Miss Solomon. You cherished us, loved teaching us, and even though you were young and inexperienced, you were a natural in the classroom.
I remember the first day of class when boys who usually caused trouble were eyeing you up and down and whispering behind their hands. We knew they were instant admirers of your pretty face surrounded by short dark hair and other features, of which the girls were envious.
Whenever those same boys started to get rowdy, whispering to each other, kicking each other under their desks, or throwing spit wads instead of paying attention to the lesson, you strolled near them, never missing the beat of what you were saying. Any commotion that was beginning stopped. You never sat down. You moved around the room asking if we needed help with our writing assignment, or the spelling words we were making into sentences. When we had to answer the questions at the end of the chapter in our grammar book, you were patient, kind, and encouraging. I heard you say things like, “Good work, Andrea.” “I made that same mistake, Billy, when I was your age. Want to hear how to fix it?” “I can see you are trying to get it right, Shirley. If you want, I can show you a trick that will help. Want to hear it?” Your corrections were gentle, kind, and understanding. And most remarkably, you asked your students’ permission. You respected any feelings of inadequacy we had. No one ever said, “No, I don’t want help.” I was awestruck by your patience and sensitivity.
After we finished our seatwork, you collected our homework. We filed by your desk and gave you our papers. You thanked each one of us as you took our papers. Everyone did their homework because we wanted to be appreciated with that smiling thank you. I also liked the opportunity to get up and move around a bit. Instead of handing out the previous day’s homework yourself, you said you would like some help and always asked one of the boys who couldn’t sit still to do it. You asked another if he would be willing to erase the board, another to pass out books or other materials we would use in class. I was enchanted by your unruffled demeanor, your understanding of diverse needs.
We were a class of 25 and you couldn’t help everyone at once. Often you asked us to form your preselected groups of three or four. I could see that the mixture in each group was designed so slower students could get help from others in their group. Magic happened. I had seen groups in other classes spend their time doodling on paper, talking about what they were watching on television, or ganging up and poking fun of another group. Miss Solomon, that did not happen in your class. We helped each other.
You ended each class on an upbeat note. Reading to us for five to ten minutes from a hilarious book had us all laughing. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next. What a fantastic way to keep kids engaged up to the last minute and wanting more the next day.
Miss Solomon, I remember a particular lesson so well. You had written Active Verbs on the chalkboard. Our homework had been to write a paragraph using at least five active verbs. You asked us to line up and write one of our active verbs on the board. We did this three at a time in three columns. I loved writing on the chalkboard as did everyone else. Then you asked each of us to demonstrate what our active verb was doing. Kids pretended to run, throw a ball, wave goodbye, or jump. Miss Solomon, today we would say you were asking students to use not only their visual, auditory, but also kinesthetic learning styles. You were genius.
You gave us a longer homework assignment about half-way through the year: Write the story of your life. You gave us two weeks to complete this story. I remember with unfailing accuracy my first sentence. ‘I have not had a very interesting life.’ I wrote about taking care of my baby brother, visiting my grandmother’s farm, gathering eggs, playing with barn kittens, and at home, caring for our own goats. When I turned in my paper, I felt embarrassed that I had nothing more to say, and, nervous because I didn’t want to reveal any of my father’s daily cruelty. When I received my corrected paper, I remember the A+ in red pen on the top. On the back page, Miss Solomon, you wrote, ‘Linda, I disagree. You have the most interesting life. You are also an excellent writer. When you think about what you might want to do when you grow up, please think about becoming a writer. You have talent! Do you write for fun? Stories? Poetry? Please talk to me about this.’
Miss Solomon, you were right. I did spend time writing stories and poems. Reading and writing were ways to escape from my real life at home. But your belief in me gave me the courage to pursue writing. For 30 plus years I have been writing and revising a best-selling biology book published by a major publisher, and recently, I have written the real story, a memoir, of my life as a nine-year-old in the best of times and the worst of times. I have also included the story of my Finnish grandmother and grandfather as it impacted me.
Miss Solomon, not only did you inspire me to become a writer, but you also motivated me to become a teacher. You were the role model I used as I worked with students in language arts and biology. For many years I taught “regular” AP and modified biology classes for students who had problems. Miss Solomon, I thought of you when one day, as I greeted my modified biology students arriving in my class. One said to me, “Why are you always so happy to see us? And you even thank us when we turn in our homework. Why? Most teachers are hiding under their desks when we arrive. They hate us. You seem to like us.” Thank you, Miss Solomon, for believing in me and teaching me how to be a teacher.