Dr. Clif CleavelandWe had no formal contract, my teachers and I. Perhaps some behind-the-scenes lottery brought us together. Each of my educators left their marks.
Mrs. Hutcherson in first grade challenged me to learn about ancient Egypt. When I brought my findings and pictures to class, she arranged for me to walk downtown with the school’s janitor to purchase thicker, colored paper cut to the measurements that she and I determined so that my work could be properly bound. She considered all of her disparate students “above average.” Some had been held back. Some were so poor that I suspect Mrs. Hutcherson bought their shoes. She read to us each day after lunch: “Five Little Peppers and How They Grew” and “Lassie Come Home” are two books that I remember. She is the first saint in my educational hall of honor.
Miss Haslett in fifth grade was a Seminole Indian. She resided in my grandparents’ boardinghouse during the school year, returning to Florida during holidays and vacations. She demanded our full attention in class. Woe, if you whispered or dozed! The first time I ever heard the word “audacity” was in a reproof to a classmate. She set high standards for our homework. We had to be prepared to go to the blackboard at a moment’s notice to solve a problem in arithmetic. Our spelling lessons took the form of weekly spelling bees. The idea of academic rigor began in her classroom.
Seventh grade brought a different teacher for each subject. We expected to be greeted by a fire-breathing dragon when we entered Miss Thelma Ward’s science class. She had a reputation for impossibly high standards and harsh punishments for misdeeds and poor work. Posters and pictures on various aspects of science covered the walls of her classroom. She took us on a demanding intellectual journey. We used microscopes for the first time. We studied birds and built birdhouses. We studied soils and rocks, writing short reports along the way. I never witnessed an eruption of her fabled temper. We were kept too busy to misbehave.
In 10th grade, Miss Holliday taught typing to me. I had already decided to study medicine in college. A physician friend advised me to take typing, since physicians had notoriously poor handwriting. Among the students in the secretarial program, I was the least coordinated. I had 10 fingers, but they operated independently. I don’t recall the specific words-per-minute goal for achieving a passing grade. I remember Miss Holliday occasionally sitting beside me to show me how to navigate the keyboard in a more coordinated manner. I hit my target by the end of the semester. Every subsequent page that I have typed honors this tall, patient lady with a frequent smile.
Miss Patty Parker, one of a pair of Parker sisters to teach me, presided over senior English. Advanced-placement classes did not exist back then. We were divided into “college” and “vocational” sections. In the former, we read and wrote a lot. She filled up the margins of my papers with corrections and suggestions. We routinely rewrote our papers. When we read “Macbeth,” she assigned different roles for class members to read. I was Macduff. Miss Parker interrupted me, encouraging me to reach beyond the words for a more dramatic effect. I’ve been reaching since. I began to learn how to write in her class. Each subsequent paper, report, clinical history or essay is a tribute to this gentle, yet demanding teacher.
Many other teachers up to the present day have added their patch to my educational quilt. As this Thanksgiving approaches, I’m especially grateful to the inspired, hard-working, underpaid teachers who guided me from first to 12th grade. Their professional descendants are out there every day, performing the same small miracles of teaching. They deserve our gratitude as well as our political and economic support.
Contact Clif Cleaveland at ccleaveland@timesfreepress.com.