Warning: Kind of a sentimental post!
*In order to protect people's identities . . . you know the deal. No real names.
Just recently I was blessed enough to be able to find my favorite teacher on Facebook. Just wanted to share some background info into the kind of impact that she made on my life.
This is Part 1
In 1991 I was 8 years old and starting the third grade. That year, my twin sister was excited to be getting Mrs. Wysocki "the nicest 3rd grade teacher ever." I was stuck with a new teacher. *Mrs. Jones. My mother gave me extra attention that morning, reassuring me that I would have a great day and to tell her everything about my new teacher.
I remember lining up alongside the building with the other children, some who were familiar faces and others who were complete strangers. We filed into the classroom, hung up our jackets and found desks with our names on it. A very tall, brown-skinned Black woman with thick long hair, glasses and a toothy grin, smiled at us as we walked past her and found our seats. I was caught off guard. A Black teacher? A tall, Black woman teacher who wasn't a little old lady like Mrs. Gould or Mrs. Henry? She waited patiently as the last students took their seats and then started speaking to us as if she'd known us for a million years.
"How is everybody today?"
"Gooood," we all said, in that lifeless, well-rehearsed, sing-songy way. Something learned from years of conditioning.
"Well, that's great!" she said, full of life and energy. "My name is Ms. Jones as you already know and I'll tell you a little more about myself. My first name is Imogene." With that, she'd just threw out the first law of being a teacher. (Guarding your first name with your life.)
I'm a jean? I thought to myself. Who would name their child "I'm a jean"?
"Does anyone know how to spell that?" she asked. Silence. "All right, let's give it a try." She started handing out paper and pencils and we all tried to write Imogene. "Sound it out," she chanted quietly as we all thought extra hard and scribbled onto our paper. "Okay, who thinks they've got it?" Almost every hand went up. "Hmmm," she said as she surveyed the classroom, scanning excited eyes and waving hands. "Ooh! ooh! I know, I know!" some kids were saying.
"You . . . Kristina!" she picked a curly-haired, redhead who'd been waving her arms wildly and leaning forward nearly tipping her desk.
"I - M - O - J - E - N" the girl spelled out confidently.
"Noooo, but close," Ms. Jones said. Duh, I thought to myself, you forgot the two A's. Eventually, after several failed attempts, Ms. Imogene Jones wrote her name on the chalkboard and explained that the "G" made the "J" sound. Next, she threw out the second rule of being a teacher. "Can anyone guess how old I am?" she asked. Silence. "Come on, guess," she coached. Even at 8 years old, we knew not to go there. "I'm forty-one years old."
*Gasps all around*
Forty one years old and she's still ALIVE?! "That's right! Forty-one," she said as if answering that question.
A little black boy (with a "gumby" haircut), a long head and poppy eyes raised his hand. "Yes, Detrick."
"Forty-one?!" he said with his scratchy voice, "Ms. Jones, I thought you were twenty-three!"
"Why thank you Detrick! That's very nice of you." Ms. Jones said smiling broadly. Another hand went up. "Yes, Quentray"
"I thought you were twenty-two," the boy said shyly.
"Oh you guys are goood," she laughed out loud. About six more hands shot up and Ms. Jones allowed each student to tell her how old young they thought she was.
And with that it was official. Ms. Jones had won her 3rd grade class over in five minutes. That day, she broke nearly every rule in the teacher's handbook. Not only had we learned her first name and her age, we also learned that she used to be a social worker. She explained to us how she helped children who didn't have good lives at home. She talked to us about going to people's houses and making sure they were being nice to their children. She told us that it hurt her feelings to know that children were having such a hard time and explained to us why she decided to start teaching. Being that my hometown was such a poor district, most of us knew about social workers and broken homes. We were all ears.
As the year progressed, it was this kind of candor and sincerity that earned Ms. Jones the student's trust and respect. She didn't have behavior problems in her classroom. She also didn't have to repeat herself very often. She was firm, but fair and when we did what we were told, we were rewarded with fun activities, interesting stories and her approval which out of all of these things meant the most to us. On Fridays (upon looking back on it, maybe Ms. Jones didn't feel like teachinig on those days, lol) we would take part in some kind of non-academic activity. I remember doing aerobics (Sweatin to the Oldies with Richard Simmons) or learning the "Electric Slide."
It was in Ms. Jone's class that I developed my love for reading. I'd started reading Ramona Quimby Age 8. 
Ms. Jones told me that she thought it was wonderful that I loved to read. After that, I read every Beverly Cleary book that existed. After getting back from the library, I couldn't wait to show Ms. Jones the new book that I'd picked out. "This book is about a mouse that rides a motorcycle!" I would tell her excitedly.
"Wow!" She'd say. "You'll have to tell me how that works out for him."
Being that this was my second year wearing glasses and I was a bit "Tomboyish," it seemed like every other day Ms. Jones was helping me to tape up my glasses after recess. (This was back in the days when glasses were plastic . . . aaaand mine happened to be cheap Medicaid glasses, so it didn't take much to snap them in half). When I would get called "four eyes" which I thought was the absolute worst thing in the world, Ms. Jones would give me the same (bad) comeback response that my mom would tell me to use. "Tell them to stop calling you that because it hurts your feelings." She would explain to me that having glasses is not a bad thing at all, because they helped me to see better. "I wear glasses," she'd say with pride and in a little way, that always made me feel better.
I'd like to think that my relationship with Ms. Jones was super-unique but it probably wasn't. She had a way of making every child feel special, as if they were her favorite student in the classroom. Needless to say she was getting called "Mom" by accident on a regular basis. Being 8 years old, I decided, was the best age ever and Ms. Jones was my favorite teacher ever.
And before I knew it, the year was over. I went onto the fourth grade and my twin sister had to repeat the third. Every teacher from that point forward, paled in comparison. In the following years, I would visit Ms. Jones whenever I got a chance. Sometimes, I would see her around the neighborhood. She and my mother had developed a friendly relationship while I was in her class, so they would have long "grown up" conversations about health problems and the school system. Ms. Jones would, of course, keep it light with me asking if I was still reading. "Yes," I would say shyly and tell her about whatever book I'd been working on. After a while, I stopped seeing her as much and then not at all for several years. She'd stopped working for the school system due to some health problems and issues that as a child, I didn't understand. I assumed it had something to do with the long conversations she'd have with my mom.
I found her again, somehow, on Yahoo Instant Messanger when I was in my junior year of high school. I told her about my desire to go to college and different struggles that I was dealing with. We talked for several weeks and then lost touch again. I never forgot her, however, and always maintained my love for reading, my regard for women who wore glasses and my (slight) obsession with the number eight.
*In order to protect people's identities . . . you know the deal. No real names.
