Thank You, Mrs Raftery

 

    My favorite teacher was my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Raftery.  She use to loop her finger in the top of my always turned out, front jean pocket and pull me close to her desk.  She would straighten my disheveled self and speak low and quiet.   Knowing I was smart, she gave me many chances.  For an interactive Western Expansion unit, Mrs. Raftery made me the leader of our wagon train.  It was a great responsibility but she believed in me.  I think I killed off our wagon train through either starvation or dysentery, but she continued to encourage.

   Mrs. Raftery loved Bruce Springsteen and sang Born in the USA.  As a class reward, she celebrated Popcorn Fridays. It was 1985 so the popcorn was popped the old fashioned, buttery, aromatic, crowd around and watch them explode in that golden machine, 80s way.
I remember sitting out in the hallway with the troublemaker boys.  I was the only troublemaker girl. Letting my guard down, I cried to the boys.  Why was I always in trouble?  Why couldn't I be the student Mrs. Raftery believed I could be.

    At the end of the following year, I visited her class.  She held me as I cried my apologies.

    My purpose is to be the teacher that Mrs. Raftery was to me.  I need to be the teacher who sees my elementary self in the eyes of that pain in the neck that is sitting in my class.  I try.  I tell them I know all about that horrible feeling in their gut.  Homework is missing again and the defenses are going up.  "I know all about it,"  I say to him.   I say him because it usually is a him. Remember I said I was the only troublemaker girl.

    Oh wait, God has blessed me with a troublemaker girl this year.  I like her and oh, is she trying.  Come Monday morning, I am going to pull her close to me and speak low and quiet. I have work to do.