My post is late and short this week, because I had several doctor appointments and a person can only have so much blood drawn before all the words drain right out of her, but I wanted to take this time to say a quick thank-you to some of my important teachers. I think about them a lot, as my writing career bobs along in the stream of science fiction.
My parents, who read to me, and funded my obsession once I learned to read to myself, despite the fact that my book budget could easily have bitten into the grocery budget without occasional gentle refusals.
The unknown adult who looked at tiny fourth-grade me and decided to shoo me off to an advanced reading class.
My sixth-grade English teacher, who kept both goats and schoolchildren with similar loving sarcasm. (In my adult life, she has fused in my memory with Granny Weatherwax from Terry Pratchett's Discworld. A higher compliment I can not give.)
My seventh-grade teacher, who kicked me out of class for pointing out that she'd cut off two stanzas of "The Tyger" in her photocopying, accidentally nurturing the very attitude that she was probably seeking to correct but which remains vital to my continued rebellion against being told to shut up.
The principal who let me skip ahead to English Honors 12 in 10th grade, even though I had been a tremendous thorn in her side.
The janitors who grinned and ignored said thorn-ish behavior because I spent time talking and cleaning with them while dodging gym class. Janitors always have great stories. If you're stuck for weird story ideas, ask a janitor.
The English Honors 12 teacher who asked me to be an aide and correct papers, but fired me for being too ruthless. "They're only seniors," he said. He also introduced me to Hermann Hesse and forgave me when I lead the class in a (successful) rebellion against reading The Sun Also Rises.
The Creative Writing teacher who asked me what my favorite word was. If I ever figure it out, I'll give her a call.
The History teacher who pointed to me and said "You! Here!" before handing me my first E.L. Doctorow novel.
Finally, while I didn't finish college (I was a punk girl with no chill in a hippie school with no drive, so unsurprisingly, it didn't work out), I do fondly recall an English professor there who once breezed into a ten o'clock class at ten forty, declaring "Well, it's getting later all the time!"
Indeed.