A New School Year: Recognizing Teacher Impact
July 26, 2022
I cannot come up with a single person. To be honest, I remember bits and pieces of my teachers—physical attributes, snippets of shared time, leftover feelings. Still, impacting bits and pieces. Miss Attaman, my second grade teacher, wore a dress every day, had silky, long black hair, and never raised her voice. She was beautiful inside and out. When my friends and I played “school,” we fought over who played Mrs. Attaman. We all wanted to be her.
My sixth grade teacher Mr. Slater had a beard. My 11-year-old self never knew an adult who had a beard, so I spent most of the school year watching his beard. He was single but married later in the school year. He liked baseball. On occasion, Mr. Slater raised his voice. After a reprimand, he spoiled us for the remainder of the day as if to restore balance. Extra recess time. No homework. Bubble gum. My best friend Tracy, wise beyond her years, often pushed for a verbal correction from Mr. Slater, anticipating the benefit of the kindness that followed. My mom often warned me not to be friends with Tracy. On occasion, she forbade me to be friends with Tracy.
Then there was my catechism teacher Sister Kathleen. A classmate asked her why she had become a nun. Sister Kathleen shared that God asked her to be a nun. We asked, “How did he ask you?” She explained God came in her mind and asked her in her thoughts. I spent a good portion of that school year worried that God was going to come into my head and ask me to be a nun. I was sure if I said yes, I would be unhappy. I was sure if I said no, I was going to Hell. It ended up being a false dilemma—the question never came.
Mrs. Siobel was my ninth grade biology teacher who did not shave her legs, was genius-smart, and had little patience for giggling girls. She lived and loved science. We apprehensively sat for her exams. There were no bonus points. No corrections. But always the invitation to repeat the class. If my friends and I still played “school” in high school, we would have fought over who was to be Mrs. Siobel. We all wanted to be her.
Coach Butler taught 11th grade history and ran grueling three-hour Saturday morning basketball practices. I was not a standout player, but he pushed me anyway. With Coach Butler, life was simple. Know the rules. Show up. Follow the rules. Work hard. Success will come. His succinct maxims were reassuring. And we did win districts. Then, regionals.
In college, I had the inscrutable Professor Edward Haworth Hoeppner. He was a poet and a pacer. He walked from one side of the room to the other for the entire class period. He rant-lectured and recited verse from memory. He never wrote on the board. He often did not make sense. To me. Endless contradictions. He was not concerned. I was concerned, but Professor Hoeppner made me question whether I should be concerned. Professor Hoeppner introduced me to the poetry of William Carlos Williams, specifically the poem “The Red Wheelbarrow”:
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
My list of teachers could go on. There is no standout singleton. Not a best. Not a worst. I do know that I carried something meaningful away from each classroom, each teacher. The learning and the relationship.
If I were to rewrite Williams’s opening to the “The Red Wheelbarrow” as a thought exercise: So much depends upon _______________________. My answer would be “teachers.” The teachers of my past. And—as the world turns—the teachers who are now my independent school colleagues.
Author
Colleen O. Potocki
Colleen O. Potocki is head of middle school at Community School of Naples in Naples, Florida.