Originally published in The Cass City Chronicle on September 2, 2020
Just a couple of weeks ago, I began my last semester of college, and even though I’ve been out of high school for 10 years, the first day back to class still affects me. There’s still something electric about the air on the morning of that first day. As I think about back-to-school time, my mind goes to Willis Campbell Elementary School. Having gone to Deford Elementary from Kindergarten through the third grade, I only spent one year at Campbell. But it was a year that had a profound impact on me, mostly because of one teacher. I was a pudgy, bespeckled 10-year-old who was in the midst of a baseball obsession when I entered Mrs. Yvonne Sherman’s fourth grade class. Generally, I liked school. History, English, geography--even science-- they all came quite easily to me. Math, however, was a different matter. I got so confused when it came to numbers. Did one really need to know the difference between the big hand and the little hand on the clock? And what on Earth did it matter how many pieces of pie Oscar would have after he gave four of them to his friend? The point was he had pie. Leave it at that! Fourth grade math brought its own problems. I can still remember the sense of panic I felt when, just after recess, I saw the overhead projector sitting in the middle of the classroom. Its presence could mean only one thing: a math drill. On a piece of paper were printed 100 multiplication problems. At Mrs. Sherman’s “Go!”, we were to successfully complete as many problems as we could in 1 minute. My palms were wet. Sweat beads formed on my brow. I looked down at my paper. I was, at once, sweltering and frozen. I hoped no one would notice my inability to do the problems. But one person did. Mrs. Sherman did. And it was one of the best things that ever happened. She sat down with my parents soon after and explained the situation. She told them that, due to the fast pace of the curriculum, she could not hold the rest of the class back until I grasped the math concepts. “He needs a little extra help,” she said. That extra help came in the form of Friday afternoon tutoring sessions after school. So embarrassed was I about these sessions, though, that I would run to the bathroom just minutes before the dismissal bell rang, hiding out in one of the stalls until I heard the rest of the kids leave through the cafeteria. Back in the classroom, Mrs. Sherman patiently sat down with a stack of scrap paper, a few sharpened pencils, and plenty of erasers to help her struggling student. These sessions went on even through the summer, because she wanted me to be ready for middle school math. The tutoring paid off--I learned the material and was ready for the 5th grade. But even more importantly, I learned the inestimable value of a good teacher, someone who took the time to ensure her struggling student did not fall through the cracks. There’s a great deal to criticize about the way we educate our kids today; but one thing is for sure: when it comes to getting a quality education, a good teacher makes all the difference. Thanks, Mrs. Sherman.
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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