May 5-9 is Teacher Appreciation Week. We wanted to take time out to remember some of the teachers who helped make us who we are today in large and small ways. Harris County Public Library stands with all teachers. We thank you for your dedication and your service.
A tough gym teacher with a heart of gold
I have used the exclamatory phrase “heavenly day” for the past 50 years of my life. I began using this phrase after I heard my fourth-grade gym teacher, Ms. Gilreath, say it. She said "heavenly day" one time when she was mildly exasperated with us. Ms. Gilreath was no ogre, but she definitely fit the stereotype of the militant gym teacher. She did not tolerate laziness and expected reasonable effort with the physical exercises. She neither tolerated chewing gum during gym class. If you were chewing gum, she would say, “In the garbage can!” I was quite an absent-minded fourth grader, and I never remembered to bring my gym shorts. Ms. Gilreath said to me one day in a firm voice, “I am going to recommend that you dress properly for gym class.” In the next gym class, I forgot my shorts as usual. Ms. Gilreath approached me and asked, “Where are your shorts?” When I said that I did not have them, she placed her arm around my shoulders and said, “Baby, I have told you to bring your gym shorts.” I have no further memories of Ms. Gilreath's gym class, but I started seeing her in passing during my senior year of high school. She would always say hello to me, and I believe that she recognized me from her gym class. I sensed from her warm greeting that she didn't remember me as the frustrating child who always forgot her gym shorts. Ms. Gilreath passed away in 2013, and I will never forget this tough gym teacher with a heart of gold. I believe that she cared for me as a person in spite of my absent-mindedness with my gym attire. --Cindy G.
Care, devotion and support
My math teacher, who taught me from 6th grade to 9th grade, was a unique character. For a scrawny teen like me, her fierce personality could be intimidating at times, but I have never felt such care, devotion, and support as Ms. Channon demonstrated for all her students. Her passion for math was very visible in her rudimentary way of teaching the subject. The thing I remember most is that while she did her best to make us into extraordinary students, one of her greatest desires was for us to grow into exceptional people of character. When I think back on her, I don’t just remember her lessons revolving around math; I also remember how she would take time to talk about integrity and daily display those values through her actions. I will forever be grateful for all that I have learned from her and for being one of the many great role models in my life. --Daniela G
"Some people just know things..."
Some practical things my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Hartley, taught me: 1. how to find if a month has 30 or 31 days by counting them off on your knuckles. 2. If you’re too shy or too scared to make direct eye contact with someone, you can focus on a spot just above the bridge of their nose, and they will never know the difference. 3. A dozen dozens is called a gross and it is okay to find that hysterically funny. Less practical things Mrs. Hartley taught me: 1. some people just know things, know you, and what you’re going through, and without ever saying a thing about any of what they know make you feel better. 2. instead of fighting, the best way to react to someone belittling you is to stand up straight, give them a look that says "who are you to talk?" and walk away. (I am still, at 60 years, trying to master that one). 3. Teaching is not a profession; it's a way of being in the world. It is a generous and life-affirming mindset for a world, that too often, seems to prize and reward the opposite. --davec
"I felt seen and heard..."
High school was a rough time for me, with a lot of changes at home that I wasn't a fan of. I responded by acting out at school for attention, and though it did get me in trouble at times, my 10th-grade English teacher, Ms. Vidal, saw past my behavior and was always so supportive and made her classroom a welcoming space for me. She always talked to me about how I was doing, encouraged my reading and writing, and never judged my behavior, as if I were trying to cause trouble. In her classroom, I felt seen and heard. She's been one of the many role models in life who has led me to work with our teens in Harris County's Juvenile Probation Department. Her kindness taught me how impactful it can be to support teens, and to see past rule-breaking as an unspoken need for love and acceptance. I'm so thankful to be in a position to give back to the community! --Natalie B.
A wake-up call
Mr. Danielson was nothing short of an ornery old man in need of retiring by the time I got to high school. He often cited his ongoing fight with kidney disease as his reason for staying in his position as a teacher for so long. He needed to pay those dialysis bills after all. He would never say it’s because he got a sliver of joy from teaching us. Fortunately, by the time I graduated, I knew better.
The thing about Danielson is that he was a realist. He was full of sarcastic comments that left you wondering if he cared about any of his students. But when he asked me what I wanted to do with my life in my senior year, and I said I wanted to be a surgeon, he looked at me and said, “That’s going to be very expensive.” He said it in complete seriousness. It gave me such pause at the time. It was the start to a very hard conversation I needed to have. My love for writing and advocacy work didn’t lend itself to being a surgeon. Deep down, I knew that. He was the first person who sat me down and forced me to think about why that might be.
He passed away a few years ago. I have regretted not telling him of his impact on my life ever since. But if this is any reconciliation: Mr. Danielson, you always believed in me in a way that made sense. Never because of my accomplishments, but for what I brought to class as a person. You saw us as more than just your students all along; we had futures and purpose. Thank you for the wake-up call all those years ago, even if it was a little sarcastic. --Nyla Vela
"In the 1970s, you didn't want to admit you lived in the Second Ward..."
Ms. Lynn was my music teacher at Lantrip Elementary. For two years of my schooling, I went to an elementary school in the poorest zip code in Houston. In the 1970s, you didn't want to admit you lived in the Second Ward, and if you were a bilingual parent, you didn't want your child to learn Spanish. I was a part of the “No Sabo” generation. A generation that did not learn Spanish, even though their parents knew it. You did not want your children to have an accent. But that did not deter Ms. Lynn from writing a bilingual musical about how awesome it is to live in the Second Ward. She tells the story of a white student, Clint, first day at Lantrip Elementary. He meets bilingual classmates who teach him the history of Second Ward, a little of their culture, and yes, some Spanish. I remember spending hours after school learning the dance steps and the songs. I remember being excited to have a major part in one of the scenes. But what I remember the most is the history I learned and the pride I felt because I lived in the Second Ward.
The first line of the musical was in Spanish, “Échame la pelota,” and the last song of the musical was called Amigo Means Friend, a bilingual song. In between were sprinkled songs and poems about famous people that lived in the Second Ward, like Howard Hughes, how our school was the first elementary school built in a certain design, what makes Mexicans great, and that our school had many cultures, and all were to be celebrated. With each dance move and note, we all became proud of who we were and where we lived.
Forty years later I still remember some of the choreography and lyrics.
[Five Six Seven step ball chain]:
The scene is green, do you know what I mean?
Lantrip school is a growing machine.
There are plants, there are trees of all shapes and sizes,
And it doesn’t take long before one realizes.
The scene is green do you know what I mean?
Lantrip school is a growing machine.
[Jazz hands]
I even learned the real reason behind the Cinco de Mayo celebration. Surprise! It is not to celebrate cerveza, tacos and salsa! According to the poem written by Ms. Lynn:
In 1862, the French invaded Mexico.
They were sure that they would win
On the fifth of May so long ago.
But Mexico was jubilant and filled with strength and pride.
For the first time they had shown the world a people unified!
Yes, Ms. Lynn gave Mexican kids a reason to be proud.
And in the end, the children teach Clint that amigo means friend.
[Cue the slow music, hold hands and sway].
Amigo means friend, someone you can depend on,
You’ve been my amigo, you are my friend.
Alguien con quien ríes, cada día más
Olvidándose las penas y dejando las atrás.
Amigo means friend, you are my friend.
I don’t know where she is or if she is even alive, but 40+ years later, I still remember her and sing her praises. --Rozette P.
"He recognized the anger in me, even before I did..."
I don’t know if I would’ve survived high school without my painting teacher. He not only provided me with the tools I needed to express myself but also gave me reassurance when I felt as though I didn’t have the right to do so. Since my first day in his advanced painting class, Mr. Raygoza was always encouraging me to get my head out of my sketchbook and actually start painting, especially because I had already studied the basics in years prior. For some reason, I felt as though I needed every single detail of a painting planned out beforehand. This often led to me just sketching in the back of the room for the entire class period, and I think that got on his nerves a bit. Raygoza probably knew that once he got me painting, I wasn’t going to stop—and that was true.
One day, he looked at my sketches, and the next day, he talked to me about abstract styles and neo-expressionism, especially the work of Jean-Michel Basquiat, opens a new window. He asked if I liked the style, and when I nodded, he handed me a palette knife and told me to start working on the big piece of heavyweight board he had set up in my corner. From then on, I’d paint the entire class period. It was hard to get me out of that corner—I was in my own little world. At the end of class, I’d have paint all over my hands and clothes. My jeans and shoes were constantly stained with acrylic paint streaks from when I’d bring the palette knife across the board in a quick downward motion.
Occasionally, when Raygoza would provide me with feedback, he’d always circle back to the same two reminders: Trust your artist instinct, and Basquiat was angry, look at his brushstrokes. I was a really quiet kid, and Raygoza knew I had a lot going on that I didn’t talk about, so he made sure I knew I could do that with my art. He recognized the anger in me, even before I did, and I can’t thank him enough for it. --Sarai A.
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