The New Principal

Suburban Chicago, about 1966. After my favorite grade-school principal got reassigned to a different post, this sister took over the leadership role. I remember her as a stern, but fair and quiet, person.

(Here she is in post-Vatican II habit.)

Happy Dance

Suburban Chicago, about 1982. That's my friend Kris dancing with Dad, and Mom takes a spin with Uncle Al. Kris reports the group danced to the piano playing of Sister Bernarda (back visible on the right), a family friend and a member of the Sisters of St. Casimir. Sister Bernarda was a music teacher at Maria High School—the high school from which Mr. Irene's Mom graduated.

Thanks to my friend Kris for making this photo available to us.

The Piano Teacher

Maywood, Illinois, April 1965. I never enjoyed piano lessons. It's really a pity: if I had focused on the keyboard as much as I did on the knitting needles, I'd be pretty good by now. Although I never took to the instrument, I adored my piano teacher, Mrs. M. I wasn't her favorite student, but she was very kind and patient with me. As a result, I count her among my favorite teachers.

Nunspiration

The "favorite teacher" is a topic that arises occasionally on the blog. The sister pictured here, Sister Patricia, was not one of my teachers. She was a member of the Order of Saint Francis, and she served for a time as the Principal of the grade school I attended.

Sister Patricia was my first "nun crush." She and a colleague once met with our family when the parish encouraged teachers to visit student homes. We hosted them in our living room in the early evening, and my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, served tea. As Sister Patricia sat on our sofa, I rested my head against her starched habit, smelled her Ivory-soap-clean hands, and noticed that she, like I, had a cheek dimple. 

After I met Sister Patricia *and* saw The Sound of Music, I was certain I wanted to become a nun.

Melrose Park, Illinois, June 1964. Sister Patricia attends a graduation ceremony.

The Verona Morning Star

My favorite high-school teacher also taught English. We students thought this teacher was cool because she was only eight years older than we were. She was fresh out of college. She was stylish: her clothes were a bit hippie Bohemian, and she styled her hair in a long shag. The teacher spoke to us as if we were adults, and she often peppered her vocabulary with words we hadn't hear before. She moderated the "Creative Writing Club," which I joined, and she took a group to hear Germaine Greer speak at the local community college. (What I remember most about Greer's lecture was how Greer flirtatiously played with her long, silk scarf throughout the talk).

 

During my sophomore year, the teacher assigned Romeo and Juliet. To test our understanding of the play, she assigned an unusual homework project. We were directed to create a newspaper that knit the themes of the play and showed our grasp of its historical setting.

 

We received the assignment on a Friday, and it was due the following Monday. When I returned home from school, I headed that afternoon to my Best Friend's house. My Best Friend was artistic, and I hoped she'd have some materials with which I could craft the piece. We found some large sheets of newspaper stock in her supplies. My Best Friend and I went out to her backyard, where we burned the edges of the paper to make it appear aged. From there, I spent the weekend writing up stories about Renaissance Verona on my Parents' Royal Typewriter. I drew advertisements, maps, and a comic strip. 

 

The assignment was the most memorable one I completed. What I learned from this teacher—and from my other, favorite teachers—was that good teachers don't teach you material; they teach you to think differently and apply what you've learned critically.

 

 

Suburban Chicago, October 12, 1973. A piece of twine originally held the two pages of my newspaper together.

 

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Page 2 featured a column by Margarita's Mouth, "Verona's Galloping Gossip."

Teacher Appreciation

I had a "favorite" teacher at every level of my education. Helen was my favorite grade-school teacher: she oversaw my seventh-grade homeroom, and she taught English. Helen took a shine to me early in the school year because she previously had had one of my relatives in her class. I also took to Helen quickly. I liked her so much that I started arriving at school early. Dad dropped me off at 7:30 each morning on his way to work. I then spent the next hour or so with Helen as she readied for the school day. 

I treasured those mornings with Helen. She shared simple life lessons with me. She introduced me to "Sen-Sen" breath mints (I used them through the college years), and she told me that after I washed my face, I should rinse with cold water to close the pores (when I've gotten facials, the aesthetician goes over my skin with a wand of dry ice). Helen became angry with me only once. She had stepped away from her desk to rouge up her cheeks. During that interval, I fooled around with her schoolmarmish desk bell. I broke the bell, and I didn't tell Helen. Helen confronted me the next morning about the damage. She admonished me, noting that failure to fess up to the break signaled a flaw in my character. After sputtering for a few seconds, Helen noticed a new item on her desk: an antique bell that I had brought from home and placed on her desk in the precise spot where that stainless-steel, desk bell had rested. Helen said nothing, but she used my bell for the remainder of the school year.

Classmates remember Helen for another story. In the middle of the year, Helen decided she would teach her twelve-year-old charges about literature appreciation. Helen proposed assigning The Catcher in the Rye, but some parents objected to the choice. Helen obediently withdrew that book from consideration. She instead assigned two novels. The first was Erich Segal's 1970 bestseller, Love Story. Our English curriculum for several weeks consisted of Helen's reading of the book—she omitted no narrative, and she articulated every curse word. After she finished Love Story, Helen turned to the "compare and contrast" novel: To Kill a Mockingbird.

Every student understood the lesson. But it didn't keep me from begging my Dad to take me and my friend, Cindy, to see Love Story in the theater. 

Now when I think about Helen's English class, I wonder whether she decided to read the novels because they made for easy lesson plans. I loved her nonetheless, and she lives in my quartet of the most appreciated teachers.

Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1971. I took this photo of Helen when she attended the confirmation of a close, grade-school friend.

A Memorable Mentor

My Dad preserved and restored many photographs of his beloved teachers and mentors.

Seligenstadt, Germany, January 18, 1948. This fellow was one of the leaders of the Lithuanian Scout troop to which my Dad belonged. He wears the scouting motto, "Budek," on his pocket. "Budek" means, "Be Prepared."