The One about Mrs Thompson.

Tribute to Thanksgiving #23: "We cannot hold a torch to light another's path without brightening our own." - Ben Sweetland

My last post was about my sweet kindergarten teacher, Miss Hunter. When I left Miss Hunter's class, I remember being so excited to move onto my next year. My first grade teacher left much to be expected. She had the reputation I'm sure every teacher wants: the mean one, the one that you could always hear yelling at her students if you were in another classroom. Second grade wasn't much fun, either. She seemed bored, a bit old and worn out. I remember really not liking the sound of her speaking voice. By the time my second grade year was coming to an end, I was over school. I didn't like going anymore.

In my hometown, when a student was about to go into the third grade, he or she was considered for the "Gifted and Talented Ennis" group. This meant that the student would transfer to a different elementary on the other side of town and take "GATE" classes there. My brother had advanced into the program and I had a feeling I would, too. I used to get stellar grades. All A's for a long time. (I'm pretty sure my first B was in fifth grade, shortly after I got hit in the head by a piece of rebar the summer after my fourth grade year. You do the math. But maybe that was or is just an excuse for me becoming a "slacker" in the fifth grade. Possible. Very, very possible.)

So, I transferred. And met Mrs. Thompson. She was head of the GATE program at Austin Elementary. At that time, she was in her early fifties. From the moment I met her, I knew I would like her. She carried that same air about her that Miss Hunter had. Joy, laughter, love. I grew extremely attached to her.

She called me "Angela." Up until that point, I'd gone by "Angie," because that's what my family called me. But she started using my real name; at first, I was a little irked by it, but then one day I asked her why she did that. She said, with a laugh, "Because it's just so elegant." (This is also the moment that I learned the meaning of the word "elegant.") Ever since then, I've gone by Angela.

She taught me how to write. I didn't like it, but that's definitely where the skills were learned. She insisted constantly that we write essays about books and daily happenings. Now, because of her hammering it into her students' heads, I am proud of the writing techniques I have developed.

She read me some of the best books. One book she chose to read to us was "The Giver" by Lois Lowry. First of all, the book is mind-blowing. I read it again a little over two years ago and still became enchanted by it. Mrs. Thompson had moments in her classes set aside to read to us. She used voices and expressions as she read, which grabbed everyone's attention, and she led discussions at the end of each chapter. In the last few pages of "The Giver," Mrs. Thompson cried. She wasn't sobbing; she wasn't making a big to-do about it. I just remember seeing tears falling down her cheeks as she finished reading the book to us. She felt books and, in turn... we did, too.

She loved to hear me sing. When she found out I could, she was the sweetest, most supportive fan ever. Like my make-shift, proud little grandma. She called me her "star."

One of the most beloved things about growing up is running into teachers, mentors, and friends from the past. I used to work at Starbucks in my hometown for about five months after I graduated, before I went away to BYU-Idaho. Every now and then, people would come in that I knew. Most of the time it was just that awkward, "Hey, I know you, but I'm going to treat you like every other customer because I don't really know you that well, and while I'm making your drink, I'll act like I care about what you've been doing for the past ten years and vice versa..." I tried to avoid it if I could.

Somewhere in my five months there, I got a surprising visitor: Mrs. Thompson. She came up to the register that I was working at and ordered her drink while she dug in her purse. We both recognized each other at the same time. I ran around the counter and hugged her so tight. There wasn't really much time to catch up since I was working, but that hug meant so much. I saw her a few other times after that when she would come in and we would have a very friendly exchange. I haven't really seen her since then, but I think about her often.

Mrs. Thompson was another one of those life-changing teachers. It was clear that she was meant to be a teacher, that she was good at what she did and that she loved each and every minute of it. I need to find her and thank her for making me love school all over again.