It seemed to my 8-year-old self that Mrs. Stanley was older than the hills.
She was small and thin, covered in wrinkly skin and a head topped with short gray hair.
She hardly had the presence of a superhero.
And yet she single-handedly changed the trajectory of my life and, I imagine, the lives of other students as well.
In addition to introducing sentence structure, reinforcing math facts and presenting a mneumonic way of remembering the planetary system, she taught me that I was capable of more than I could have ever imagined.
We moved to the small south suburban village of Chicago Ridge the summer after I’d finished second grade. I’d been a lackluster student in primary school, receiving mostly “U” — “unsatisfactory” — marks on my papers and report cards.
Although my addition and subtraction seemed OK, I struggled with reading. I didn’t like it. I couldn’t learn it. It gave me a headache.
And, now, because my parents had invested in a “larger” house (that seems dinky by today’s standards), there was no longer money for a Catholic education. I would have to “tough it out” in the public school system.
Needless to say, I dreaded the start of a new year in a new district. And one good look at Mrs. Stanley on that first day cemented my sense of doom.
The first thing I realized that September day was that fear, in and of itself, is not only real but debilitating. Convince yourself you’re going to fail and, chances are, you will.
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But the coming weeks brought a flurry of testing. I was prescribed glasses, enrolled in speech class and put into a mid-level reading group.
By Thanksgiving, I had leveled up in reading. I went from believing I couldn’t read “Dick and Jane” to reading everything in sight: Library books, Science Research Associates readers, magazines.
That Christmas, I asked for “lots of books” and my wish was granted.
The more I read, the more I wanted to read. It’s incredible how different the world looks when you believe you can be a part of it.
It wasn’t until I was much older that I could look back and attribute my newfound ambition to Mrs. Stanley. She was the first person to look beyond the fact that I was struggling, and consider how that might be fixed.
She also taught me a social skill that I have never forgotten. One day she announced that the class, which was arranged in rows of paired desks, would be changing seats the following week. Everyone was excited. At recess, we all buzzed about who we wanted as seatmates.
As we were leaving that Friday afternoon, I stopped by Mrs. Stanley’s desk and said, “I don’t care who I sit next to as long as it’s not Walter.”
I can’t remember why I didn’t like Walter. He was shy, quiet, what we’d call “nerdy” these days. And I kind of shiver at my gall and naivete in making such a bold and cruel request.
When Monday came around, all of us excitedly walked into the classroom.
I quickly found my seat and, just as quickly, gasped as Walter plunked down right next to me.
How could Mrs. Stanley do such a mean thing?
I refused to talk to him for most of that first week. But as time went on, we began to chat. We worked together on workbook pages and we lent each other supplies. I realized he was pretty good at math and that he liked basketball. By the end of that seat rotation, Walter and I were solid friends.
There have been other teachers who have made lasting impressions in the lives of both myself and my daughters.
On the first day of an English class at Richards High School in Oak Lawn, Mr. Judycka assigned us to write an essay on why “television is pernicious.” We all thought he was bonkers.
But, in addition to teaching us what “pernicious” meant, he taught us how to look at things from an opposing point of view. That insight has served me well.
When my youngest was a junior at Andrew High School in Tinley Park, she enrolled in AP European History. It was a tough class and she struggled on some of the exams. But her teacher, Mr. Duffy, allowed the students to retake the tests as long as they attended a comprehensive review session first.
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Not only did my daughter learn a lot about European history that semester — an interest that still grips her — she learned that knowledge is its own reward. Tests are just an indicator of what you know at a given point in time. They are not a measure of your learning potential. Even if, or especially if, you fail on an exam, the material can still be yours for the taking.
In addition, attending those review sessions taught my daughter how to study, something that a lot of kids never learn and a skill that enabled her to do well later in nursing school.
I never thanked Mrs. Stanley for ushering me into a whole new world. Back then, students didn’t even give end-of-year gifts to teachers.
But I hope, somehow, she knows that I am forever grateful for her interest, her concern and her gift for opening doors of opportunity and teaching lessons that would not only serve students well in third grade, but maybe last a lifetime.
Teachers have the power to change the world, one student at a time. To mark the start of a new school year, I would like to share stories about the teachers who changed lives. If you have an anecdote about an educator who inspired, improved, encouraged, motivated, redirected or simply helped you see the potential in yourself, please reach out via email at [email protected].
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.