December 29, 2005

Inspired by a Teacher

Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

The first writing assignment I can remember was an obligatory letter to my grandmother when I was in elementary school; we, the untrained populace of second-graders, each began with:

“Dear Grandmother,

How are you? I am fine.”

Our teacher derisively rebuffed our shallow conversational skills, requesting we be a trifle more creative.

I gave it another shot:

“Dear Grandmother,

I’m not allowed on the playground until this is written, so hurry up and read...”

By the eighth grade I was a freak child consorting with phraseology, complex sentences and clauses (both independent and subordinate), while petitioning against ne’er-do-well dangling modifiers. Growing appreciation for grammar (See, right there, I dangled a modifier—horrifying, aint it?).

That same year I flunked my first math test (shoulders shrugging in breezy apathy), and was introduced to journaling.

The world of words spun on its axis.

My weekly assignment was to write two paragraphs in my trusty Mead spiral, but my best friend and I usually chronicled the social climate of middle school upon four to five pages per day.

My English teacher, a robust, free-thinking African-American woman, became my mentor, and journaling became my favorite escape.

She taught us that telling the truth about infinitesimal and secret details was OK, because it was our journal and our private thoughts, with one general rule: she got to grade them, so no profanities or we’d be busted.

I was cool with that.

I logged detail after uninteresting detail about my Midwestern life, capturing each vital crush, my first kiss and my first love, with ink on paper. Each boyfriend got his own journal; I was a passionate scribe.

To date, I own around 50 almost-full journals, all of them especially hilarious over a bottle of wine.
Recently, I decided to look up my former eighth-grade English teacher. I called the human resources department of my alma mater, and within a half hour she phoned me back.

She was delighted that a former student held her in such high regard, as she tried placing me: “Jill Brooks, um, your name sounds familiar…” I said, “Don’t picture the smartest student from your class; focus on the enthusiastic daydreamer.”

There, in the deep recesses of her mind, I was.

We reminisced for over an hour; she said getting my call made her 39 years of teaching worth while.

A moment before we hung up she exclaimed, “Jill, you’ve made my year—thank you so much for calling.”

You too should call your favorite teacher and behold the power of words.