Eleanor Spiers at Spalding Drive
Elementary school in Fulton County, north of Atlanta, seems more
remarkable to me every year that I teach seventh grade myself.
We had
no books, not even workbooks, only a classroom set of very dull grammar
exercises. We sat in neat rows. We met her class just before lunch, just after a class called "Spelling" where my classmates
mercilessly reduced the soft-spoken spelling teacher to tears by
interrupting and ridiculing her. (I didn't -- that class was agony for
me.) But then we'd file across the hall to Mrs. Spiers, who never raised
her voice, never punished anyone, and never had to. We never
interrupted. We never misbehaved.
How did she do it? That's a
mystery to me even today. A student once paid me the compliment,
"You're strict, but it doesn't feel like it." That's how it felt with
Mrs. Spears, and she was much more successful at that than I've ever
been.
[Photo: While we had no class text to read, Mrs. Spiers did show us Encyclopedia Brittanica's short film of Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery." The discussion that followed taught me how to test theories with citations of evidence from the story itself. I now show the same film to my classes.]
What she taught was, I'm afraid, superfluous. My verbs had
agreed since third grade, and I'd used commas and quotes correctly
since fourth grade at least. From her I learned easily to diagram
sentences, and never have found any use for doing so.
What she did
for her students, however, was to encourage what was good in our
writing. It's the same technique that Dr. Sclater would use to teach me
music composition (read more).
From time to time, we would take a break from grammar exercises, and
she would have us write stories that we could read aloud to the class.
My first story was, I'm afraid, more
sermon than story. It told of a boy who wanders off alone in a public
place and gets in trouble with delinquents. He escapes, barely, and
concludes that he has learned his lesson. She praised it to the class
as a prime example of "dry humor." I had no idea what she was
talking about. She explained, "The story seems to be serious, but
that's what's funny. It makes fun of that kind of preachy story that
tries to teach children a lesson."
She was wrong (or, as I think
now, she was pretending to be wrong). I truly had taken my preachy
story seriously. But I tried from then on to live up to her opinion of
my work.
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