I screwed up and posted without the poll, maybe this time I’ll get it right.
For me it was sixth grade. Mr Bradbury was in his first year of teaching. He liked sci-fi and fantasty literature, and read us The Hobbit, one chapter each day. When teaching us how to write short stories he had us make it a sci-fi story. After the school year was over he got married and we were all invited to his wedding! I could go on and on, but he was my best/favorite teacher ever, and I wouldn’t have done many of the things I’ve done, or be the person I am, if he’d not been my teacher.
I’d say eleven, mainly because that was the year that I suddenly, and with great clarity, understood how English was constructed and why. After two years of incomprehensible Latin classes in grades 9 and 10, I was sitting in 11th grade English class barely paying attention while Mr. Miller started diagramming a sentence on the board. He pointed to the direct object and asked “What part of speech is this?” It came to me in a blinding flash (I only exaggerate slightly): “That’s the direct object!” I heard myself exclaim, to the astonishment of both Mr. Miller and myself. “That’s correct!” sez he. He began diagramming another sentence, and as he did so, the road map to the language became crystal clear to me and I was calling out adjectives, adverbs, objects of the prepositions, you name it. I went from a C English student to an A student literally overnight.
6th Grade. I had the most wonderful teacher, Mrs. Kapitzky. She managed to isolate whatever talents each student had, and cultivated them. I don’t know how, but she even managed to discover talents in kids who were hopelessly dumb. There was a kid who was “challenged” in just about everything, but she uncovered a talent for very detailed drawing, especially cars. I was also in the “art” group, and she gave us assignments that were challenging for each of us. She also told my parents that they should give me music lessons, which they did. I played violin until the end of high school, and often thereafter.
It was especially a good year, because it was the last before 7th grade, the worst year.
9th grade. I was attending a school that was k-12 with k-6 in one area and 7-12 in another. I had finally figured out where I fit in, who I was in the “big kids” part of the school. I had a great group of friends and things were great.
That summer my parents moved us several hours away and I knew no one and had to start all over. I enjoyed all my years from k-9 at that school, but 9th grade was my last great year.
I had other good teachers, in 2nd grade, 3rd, 5th, and kind of 7th, but in my senior year, after a tumultuous high school career, our new English teacher announced that we had a writer in our midst. I knew it had to be David ______. Not only did he play football, he was the quarterback. And he was good looking, and kind. And very smart, in ways that get you in the Key Club. But then the teacher said my name. I’d never had anything like that happen to me before. I withdrew into a pinpoint in my mind with a tight smile at my desk but during that year he critiqued my work, introduced me to authors I should read, and helped me pick out classes for my first year at college. He led me off our porch into the world with a prod and a wink, giving me more than I could ever say.
1st grade, easily. My teacher was this kind and compassionate soul, and I thrived under her. The next teachers I had, not so much, and as my peers started to pick on me it drove my essential self deep underground. I try to channel her any time I work with one of my little ones. Thank you Mrs. Wright, wherever you are now (she’d be in her 70’s at this point)…
My Sixth Grade teacher was a wonder! He inspired us all. He was soft-spoken and kind, and he treasured knowledge. He taught us to treasure knowledge.
If the best education is “learning how to learn,” this guy was the best of educators.
(Even better, he went on to become the school Principal. Over the years, I wrote him a number of “thank you” fan letters. It’s well to let the good ones know how much you treasure them.)
(He read Scott O’Dell’s “Island of the Blue Dolphins” to us. I was sad at the ending…so he told me, “Re-write it.” My exercise was, of course, childish and naïve, but it came to me as a vast intellectual breakthrough. We aren’t limited to what we are given in books. “Fan Fiction” is a legitimate form of literary endeavor!)
Thanks for making this poll, Baker! It pairs well with the last one. For me, I’d have to go with 3rd grade, but 5th and 1st were also great. In 3rd, though, not only did I have an awesome, young energetic teacher who was tons of fun - always having us do crafts and such - but an older (late 60s to mid 70s) teacher’s assistant who would read aloud from books constantly and gave us her love of literature. Plus, 3rd grade was the last year that I just didn’t care about what my classmates thought of me - the whole fear of looking stupid started in 4th.
First grade was amazing, entirely due to my wonderful teacher. I didn’t attend kindergarten (which still isn’t required in my state,) so was lumped into a classroom with other kids who also hadn’t attended school previously. Unlike most of the other kids in that class, however, I could read and write and spell and do math and stuff - academically, I tested at about a sixth-grade level by then. Mrs. McCall was a veteran teacher (and a very nice lady, incidentally,) and recognized that I was going to be bored out of my mind if forced to sit there while she taught everyone else the alphabet and numbers and stuff. Instead, she worked to challenge me: letting me help other students sometimes, arranging for me to go to a different (advanced) classroom for reading and math, going to the Board of Education to get a waiver so that I could be enrolled in the school’s enrichment program (which was typically only open to grades 3 and up,) and getting special permission for me to use the school library (students weren’t allowed to check out books until second grade, usually.)
Naturally, being a little kid, I didn’t realize just how fortunate I was at the time, but I was lucky to be able to thank Mrs. McCall about 10 years ago, when I ran into her at a parade in my hometown. Mrs. M died less than two years ago, at the age of 92.
