"Mrs. Crowley believed" - End of the Day - fond remembrances of fifth-grade teacher

There was who seemed vision for my Mrs. Crowley never a teacher to posses the success that held.

I was the tall, gangly kid who, for practical purposes, should have sat at the back of the class. But I was nearsighted, in a state of perpetual squint, trying to see the blackboard. Eventually, I got glasses, but in the early weeks of my fifth-grade year, thanks to Thelma Crowley--and despite the moaning protests of other students--I sat at the front of the class, my desk positioned between rows to avoid marooning anyone behind me. Those who imagined I was the teacher's pet soon discovered my only privilege was a very conspicuous front-row seat.

Mrs. Crowley believed I was intelligent. She never told me this directly, but I knew she believed. Even as she guided me through the whitewaters of math, my nemesis, I never sensed a flicker of doubt from her. She'd stand patiently by, explain a concept three different ways, and answer my wails of despair with, "In a few minutes, when you understand this, you'll giggle to remember how frustrated you've been."

As I began to share Mrs. Crowley's belief in my abilities, I became determined to fulfill her belief in me. She gave me books to read that were not part of the general curriculum. I hoped this meant I was special to her, but I noticed she also gave tailor-made assignments to others. I watched as she glided between the rows, leaning over every desk, smiling encouragement to all. Even the class miscreant received his equal share of praise, and nurture. She was too principled to show favoritism. This insight made me admire her more, and I aspired to perform at my highest level.

In mid-winter of the school year, I was in the hospital for a tonsillectomy. Mrs. Crowley came to visit me, and her visit threw me into a state of mute awe. She arrived with a gift--a box of Friendship Garden bath powder. Soon my awe was replaced by near giddiness. She had chosen a gift with the word "friendship" on the box! Surely this meant something. Yet knowing how egalitarian Mrs. Crowley was, I contented myself with two certainties. She cared enough to visit me, and she cared enough to bring me a gift.

For the remainder of my formal education, I had no teacher comparable to Mrs. Crowley. There were many teachers I liked--many teachers from whom I learned a great deal. But there was never a teacher who seemed to possess the vision for my success that Mrs. Crowley held. Her vision was enough. Over the years I carried it with me.

At times I realized other teachers actually didn't believe in me: a high school English teacher, for example, who rejected a writing assignment I submitted in the form of an epic poem. He said I couldn't have written it. But I remembered: Mrs. Crowley believed. Long after I lost touch with her, I still found myself stretching to fulfill the vision of myself she had reflected to me.

Marilyn Mitchell is the author of Dancing on Quicksand: A Gift of Friendship in the Age of Alzheimer's (Johnson Books, Boulder, CO, 2002).

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