It was not until spring break that I realized I was missing something: fire. I did not feel like moving. I was making grades below those to which I was accustomed – and what was worse, I barely cared. I succeeded everywhere else, but I could not bring myself to feel too terrible about course work. I was at a dead end.
Then, over spring break, I ran across someone from high school and the solution hit me so hard that I was tempted to imitate a certain swirly-haired fictional being and cry, “Brain blast!”
I was missing my fire. I had no one there to start the fire. I did not have. . .  Mrs. G. Mrs. G taught me AP English IV in high school, and I had never learned more from a teacher than I learned from her. She was funny. She was coherent. And standing at just over five feet tall, she was the most feared being on campus.
Which begs the question of “Why?” Did she wield a taser? Did she employ cruel and unusual methods of behavioral conditioning? Did she have a replica of Ms. Trunchbull’s chokey? Not at all. If you failed, you failed; have a nice trip down. She never yelled at us. But something about her manner made us fear for our very souls and, for whatever reason, want to do well in her class. Every single one of her students wanted to see the purple “good job!” at the top of our essays.
How the hell did she do it? I think most of us students innately sensed how much she cared – about her job, teaching children, or the very subject of English I cannot say, but she deeply cared about something and we noticed it.
The problem is that educators like Mrs. G are few and far between. She was the only high school teacher I had of that caliber. More depressing still, I only get a professor like this perhaps once or twice a semester and I do not understand why. Some professors – some teachers – are dignified, tenacious, passionate beings sent from God to educate the younger generations. But for those who fall so short of these standards, why, oh, why did you go into education? Why am I sitting here boring holes into the clock that, damn it, seems to be broken?
Remember. Remember being an undergrad. Remember finding the subject that sparked your passion and spread that flame to your students. You do not have to like undergrads. Feel free to indulge in the urge to call pest control when you find yourself in a hallway teeming with us. But heavens above, love your subject! Take pride in your work – only a fraction of which is publishing. Every student who sits through your course bares your stamp. Do you want your legacy to be a hoard of dispassionate blockheads? I promise that if your students see you frothing at the mouth with joy over atomic particles, they will at least feel a prickle of interest. Do not worry about making lame jokes or even about pretending to smile. If you start panting, “Oh my stars, look at this children, it’s e. coli!” some of us will think you’re a freak, yes, but at least we will remember class that day.
And maybe you will find yourself looking forward to class, too.
H.C. Manning is a sophomore majoring in geology. She can be contacted at [email protected].