The memories that I have of my kindergarten teacher all bring about a similar emotion in me. Awe. I remember being so young, 5 or 6 at the time, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her while she read us a story.
Her hand maneuvering the book in a way that it had done a thousand times before. Her pinky and thumb holding the pages open so that it faced us, with just enough of an angle that she could read the words as well.
The entire moment captured me.
The story.
How she held herself.
Her accent.
The story again. But this time because I wanted to pay attention so I could impress her.
It was less about the things she did as my teacher and more so about how she made me feel.
She made me feel special like I was the only student in her classroom while encouraging us all to make friends. She made learning feel like playing. To this day I still enjoy the act of learning, regardless of how frustrating or difficult it may be there is always a part in me that relishes in the challenge. I owe my thirst for knowledge to her.
She not only made me love learning, but she also ignited the passion in me at a young age to want to become a teacher as well as an adult. This was done in two ways:
- She made the classroom environment imaginative, magical and fun.
- She has always remembered me. And no, I do not mean that she recognized me until the 4th grade when my family moved and I had to go to a different school. I mean now, as a woman in my twenty’s, I can run into her anywhere and she will hug me and say “Oh Samantha, I am so happy to see you.”.
I imagine that the first day I am a teacher with my own students, my own classroom, I will look at the bright minds before me as I would look at a blank notebook. I will know the beginning, middle and end of the story which will lie inside, but it is my job to guide the pages between in filling themselves. It will be my job to help them write their story.