What is interesting, as someone who has been blessed with a number of good teachers, is that there is absolutely no consistency in what makes a good teacher -- some are strict, some are loose, some are flamboyant, some are quiet, some are focussed, some are all over the place.

I was thinking about something like that as I closed a children's world civ book this AM awash in memories of Mr. Fleming. I'm picking up some stuff now that touches on old disconnetions.

Mr. Fleming. Well.... Take Al Franken, put him on Silly Putty, and and stretch him taller and skinnier. Then make him older, pull his belt up high on his upper waist like older guys did back then, and give him foamy, denture-bond saliva. Then turn that image loose on cultural diffusion, picture him bounding across maps in front of the class, and you've got my HS freshman-year History of World Civ class.

HS was a maze of colliding insanities for me, with a few good friends and a very few helpful adults for seasoning. I retain only a fraction of most of my schooling, in fact, due to chaotic moves/family from infancy on up to HS. But I can recall, with very little reminding, the whole magilla of Mr. Fleming's class. I can still see the way handsome, early-puberty Jon, the basketball player, lounged his 6'4" frame from the too-small desk and across the aisles... legs SO long, but relaxed. Mr. Fleming just gave him a back seat so we didn't trip over him, and let Jon deal with the embarrassment of unanticipated hard-ons, as we focused on the maps, from back there. Mr. Fleming loved his subject so passionately that he could (I'm looking back now from my adult view) teach it each year as if he had just discovered it. And had been doing so for years, quite sincerely.

Another teacher I recall from HS was Mrs. Green. Small, sedate, quietly self-contained, terribly correct in her daily dress, reserved and formal in affect-- and wafting a discreet but intoxicating perfume. Stability, welcome, a love of grammar (English teacher). I believe it was she who, one day at her desk grading papers as we read, who forgot where she was-- and lit up a cigarette. From Mrs. Green's class I retain "Portrait of Jennie," whose chaotic way of growing up so perfectly suited me. I still cry when I smell that perfume on another woman, in gratitude for Mrs. Green. I can't quite got ahold of the cig memory-- how she discovered the cigarette error. I might have been the one who told her. Wastebaskets were metal back then, fortunately; I do recall THAT part and the discreet little giggle she could not suppress as she ground out that butt.

Mr. Mills, HS drama. A good listener who warned me not to ask the school guidance counselor for too much help because it would tag me in my records forever as a mental case not to be trusted. He was wrong. And he was right. I didn't know then that the counselor's main job was to match us up with kollidges. Mostly I remember his gentle southern accent and his hair pomade. He was handsome, too. I learned much later that some of the girls had had "private" time with him.... but I never felt the least threat from him, so if they did, I am sure it was OK with them! It was the late 60's! Who cares! Everybody was doing it! :~)


Mr. Costello. Jr. High science. Mr C did not give a rat's ass for tests, but he had to be abe to say we took 'em. He would usually stalk up and down the aisles of the classroom, whispering answers to the kids who needed them to get sufficient grades to feel good about coming to class. Mr C was all about actually playing with chemicals and bunsen burners, and letting these do the "real" teaching. But of course he taught so much about loving people and LIFE. In his room I always knew exactly where I was, who I was, and what was happening. But I have NO idea now what else happened in that school, or if that was the same place I had Mr. Lombardo. Or maybe Mr C was before Jr. High. Whatever!

Mr. Lombardo, maybe another Jr. High? A crazed, full-blooded Italian immigrant who was supposed to be in Opera but came here and then didn't make it into Opera. An artiste. OMG could he get us excited about music. But he could also be quite abusive, if you did not know your pitch. He regularly shamed young girls and boys at the blackboard with castigating rants. Oh well, I forgave him, because I too was wired for music. And I always wore my favorite red corduroy jumper with the chunky front zipper up the front-- and checkered tights, so mod!-- on Music Class days, because I felt so good in that dress I didn't really care as much about the yelling. But to this day I have trouble keeping a sense of self, among ranters. I should work on that, now that I see where it connects for me.

Thanks, Teachers.

~Susan