Her name was Mrs. Young, but she was pretty old. Maybe 60. Her dishwater-blonde hair was dulled by her age, but not exactly completely gray. Her face was totally round, practically a circle, but she was thin and short. She wore turtlenecks a lot, not in a particularly stylish way, but a frumpy, faded, cable-knit, why-would-I-care-if-you-like-how-I-look way. She was married and would complain about her "stupid" husband occasionally and I was startled each time. I can't decide if she loved us unconditionally OR she cared so little for us she wouldn't bat and eye if we dropped dead in her presence. I think she's the first adult I ever met who unabashedly wore her stone-cold heart on her sleeve. Surprisingly I wasn't really scared of her, but fascinated by her. She was fierce.
Her classroom was a portable trailer in front of the school, which she kept at a frigid 60 degrees year-round. At the time my school had some serious space issues and there were about 40 teachers in portable trailers- mostly the young hip teachers who liked to play loud music and let their kids be loud. Not Mrs. Young. She kept her desks in regular traditional rows. She didn't bother to decorate her bulletin boards. She lectured from a single barstool up front with a rickety podium that fell over every once in a while. She didn't bother to print worksheets. She rolled her eyes when she had to give us quizzes and tests. She made us read five Shakespearian plays aloud together that year, and she took great joy in explaining every euphemism and watching us blush. She would time us for twenty minutes and make us silently write seven-paragraph essays about any random topic she wanted. She gave us grueling projects and returned them covered in red ink.
On the first day of class she introduced herself and clarified, "Before you even ask, no, I don't have kids. I don't have pets. I never wanted kids or pets. I am not a nurturer. I don't even bother with plants. And I'm not going to bother much with you." She then went on to explain that she was angry she had to teach one class of 9th grade literature since she had 6 other classes of 11th graders. She was really good at not making us feel welcome.
About four months into the school year she finally learned my name.
One time my friend Meredith and I walked into her class singing a Ciara song, and she told us to shut up.
I really really really didn't understand her.
Honestly though, I still think about her weirdly often for someone so far in the past. At least once a month.
At the time we all thought she was a terrible heartless teacher but I now realize she was actually wonderful and had a brilliantly bigger plan in mind. Thanks to her, 9th grade literature class was the first time I was able to take criticism without beating myself up over it. I didn't care about her personal opinion of me. I didn't want to please her or befriend her or impress her. I just trusted that she was smart, and her red ink was inspired, and I know my writing improved dramatically that year.
I never intend to be a schoolteacher again, and if I ever were I certainly wouldn't employ her stone-cold methods, but I totally see her point. I think I kind-of get her.
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