Favorite Teacher

She was my first grade school teacher.

Slim, cold, smart, beautiful. She confiscated my magic cards and tossed them up in the air for the entire class to collect. She turned 27 in 1995; the class got her a box of dustless chalk (we deemed it a thoughtful gesture). In our Kris Kringle her codename was “Barbie,” much to the chagrin of the kewl kidz.

A classmate thought it was funny to remark that “tubers” were “tubero” (Filipino for plumber) while she was discussing root crops. This didn’t amuse her so she ordered the wiseass to step out of class and dig into the ground and not stop until he happened upon a plumber underground.

We watched an educational play at the Folk Arts Theater and she did not approve of the scene where the main characters burned their trash (she said she would write a letter of complaint to the creators). She was supposed to reprimand me for *something* that I did (because my “best friend” ratted on me) but I didn’t show up when she asked me to. A classmate sobbed after being reprimanded by her; all she could say was, “Let her cry, I won’t be affected.”

We spotted a nasty vandalism about her in the boys’ rest room and, right away, we reported it to her (thinking it would score us brownie points). She had a beautiful signature, which I managed to successfully copy after nights of hard practice.

She was my favorite grade school teacher.

A couple of days ago I ran into her and said hello.

She politely smiled and queried, “Who are you?”