Teacher’s Reward A Student’s Small Token Of Appreciation Creates Lifelong Memory
Tarnished green, incompatible with diamonds, rubies and pearls, a little gold ring nestles in the velvet folds of my jewelry chest. Gold? Worthless to others, but it is my most prized possession.
I gave up a teaching career when I married my Air Force husband. You can take the teacher out of the classroom … not out of your heart; consequently, wherever I lived, I placed my name on the school’s substitute list. After my husband’s retirement in Tampa, Fla., I put my teaching activities on hold. Enough is enough, I told myself. Not so!
In late August, the principal of an elementary school telephoned me. “I am in desperate need of a substitute to replace a fifth-grade teacher who is on maternity leave. I have exhausted my list of eligible teachers. Will you please help?”
I told him I was not qualified to teach elementary grades, as my experience had been on the secondary level.
Brushing my objections aside, he insisted the needs of the children surpassed my qualifications, and with school opening in just two weeks, the situation was critical.
My teaching instinct overcame good judgment and I consented, even though it was a challenge on an uncharted course.
When I saw the school’s archaic building in a teeming commercial-fishing waterfront, my brave challenge began to crumble. Families here lived below the poverty level, many on welfare. But the children’s great needs gave me the impetus to help them overcome their social handicaps.
The window fan in my sardine-packed classroom whirred hopelessly, unable to combat the stifling humidity, body odors and acrid scent of newly purchased clothing. The students looked at me as curiously as I looked at them. I pegged as veteran trouble makers, over-aged boys with carnal knowledge stamped on their faces. Others, with sparkless eyes, evaluated their new teacher. Socially denied, no doubt abused in many ways, I thought, my challenge wavering. What could I accomplish in three months? How could I help them when I didn’t understand their background?
The teacher in me said, “Try.”
Eva joined me during recess, shuffling painfully in new patent leather shoes fresh from the bargain table. “These here shoes hurt my feet and I got blisters on my heels,” she told me. I noticed weeping sores on her legs and, seeing my surprised look, she dismissed my concern with, “Oh, these are just sand sores.”
The next day I supplied her with a pair of my house shoes, white socks, soap, Band-aids and healing salve, and gave her instructions on how to use them.
For the next week, I observed her frail, 13-year-old body with its colorless skin, listless eyes, and gums red with gingivitis. In the classroom, she was lethargic, inattentive and often nodded off or put her head on her arms and slept. When I asked her if she were sick, she confessed, “I’m so sleepy. The little ol’ baby kept me awake all night.”
A knowledgable teacher told me about Eva’s home life. Both parents worked at a cannery and spent their week’s paychecks on liquor before buying food. Each year they produced a baby, thus populating every grade with their offspring. Eva, as their eldest daughter, was responsible for the care and feeding of the children.
On hearing Eva’s story, a caring donor supplied me with a box of outgrown dresses. Dividing them with other needy girls in my class, I selected the prettiest pink dress for Eva. The glow of happiness on her pale face was a joy I shared with her. I gave her a hanger for the dress, admonishing her to treat it with care.
Despite humidity and unrelenting heat, Eva wore the frilly, long-sleeved dress the next day, walking like a princess. On another day, her younger sister appeared wearing the same dress with the same touch of royalty.
Leaning of my philanthropy, the principal called me to his office. “Your purpose here is to teach the children,” he reprimanded, “not indulge in social work.”
How could I follow a lesson plan with children barely able to read, when their hungry-for-love eyes followed me? My priority was to fill their emotional needs, which were more important to them than words on a printed page.
I tried to teach history and geography, even making the subjects more dramatic and exciting; but after a while, their eyes drooped and retention was gone.
Each night, as I recounted the school day, I was devastated; I felt I was failing them as a teacher. However, by morning I would return to the classroom with renewed hope.
On my last day, the children surrounded me with hugs and affection. They had touched my heart and I wished them well.
Eva lingered, the last to leave the room. “Good-bye,” I smiled, looking into her sad eyes. She handed me a note and fled, weeping uncontrollably.
“I lov yu lik yu wuz my muther,” she wrote. Inside the note was her little gold ring. It was all she had to give me, except her love.
I never saw Eva again. All I have to remind me of her is the little gold ring. I ask it if Eva’s frailty survived the everyday trauma of her unpromising future. Did our mutual caring ignite a spark to help her cope with life?
Of course, the ring never answers me as it silently nestles in its velvet bed, surrounded by diamonds, rubies and pearls.
Tarnished green with age, the little gold ring has lain in my jewelry chest for many years. Gold? In my memory it is pure gold and continues to be my most prized possession.
MEMO: Thalia Daley Kleinoeder is a Spokane-based free-lance writer.