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Mary McKnight's avatar

First, my compliments to Arden. Mrs. Hoxie was my second grade teacher at Occoquan Elementary school in Virginia. She was beautiful, with her dark hair, always up in stylish way. She wore mini dresses with flowers, colorful tights and shiny flats. My dad was in Vietnam that year as was another kid's dad. She had, in the right hand corner of her blackboard, Dad's name (LTC McKnight) and the other dad's name with the number of days until they came home. Each day, she would erase the the two numbers, to one less. I adored her. She always smelled like lemons and love. Today, so many years later, I recall the tender hearted woman who made me feel special, and hopeful about my dad returning home. Her stylish dress choices influenced my own style and as a teacher myself, I personalize my interactions with my students so that they know I know how important the people, the loved animals are, their interests and fears are to me. Thank you, Mrs. Hoxie, for loving me as an 8-year-old in second grade. For giving me Valerie Bozman as my buddy to eat lunch with and play with at recess from my first day in your class, to the last. Thank you for playing, "Hey Jude" one day on the record player and telling us about the Beatles. I collected each of their albums and this influenced my obsession with music to this day. You were, and always will be, the angel on Earth for my tender heart.

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Zoe FitzGerald-Beckett's avatar

Zoe FitzGerald-Beckett

In 1962 I was an eight-year-old third-grader at St. Anastasia’s Roman Catholic School in Queens, NY. and I loved my teacher, Mrs. Abbadessa. Firstly, I loved her name. It sounded like a magic spell. And secondly, because she wasn’t a nun in a severe black habit and wimple that I found scary. Mrs. Abbadessa wore pretty clothes and spiked high heels and make-up. I loved her bright pink lipstick. Her jet-black hair was usually up in an elaborate French twist or a beehive hairdo. I thought she was beautiful.

One day we were having a test from our “Fun with Phonics” books. Any third grader could tell you phonics was not fun. I liked to read, but not the dictionary. All those little marks breaking up the words were confusing. And who could remember where they were supposed to go on a test?

As I sat glumly staring at those hieroglyphics during one such exam, Jeanie, a classmate two seats in front of me, created a welcome diversion. She raised her hand and said she felt sick – and got excused to go home. Well, that seemed like a good idea to me. I waited what I thought was a decent interval while trying to look studiously engrossed in my test paper. Then I raised my hand, and said I felt sick too.

I can still remember Mrs. Abbadessa’s face as I stood there shamelessly clutching my stomach and telling her I was going to throw up, with some 40 plus pairs of eyes on me wondering if I would get away with it too. (Yes, there were that many of us baby boomers in that one class!). She didn't smile, but I could see it in her eyes. Maybe she was impressed with my blatant lying. Or perhaps she pitied me my stupidity in making the attempt so quickly after Jeanie's successful bid to break out of phonics prison. But she didn’t shame me in front of my classmates and send me to confession for lying. Or rap my knuckles with the dreaded copper ruler I had seen some nuns use for smaller transgressions . Instead, she sent me home! How could I not love her?

Why are some memories so easy to recall? Sixty years later, I can still see her face, made up and beautiful. Her smile. Her hairdo. I think of her patience trying to teach such a crowd of bored, restless children five days a week. I I marvel at her ability to appreciate my childhood silliness and her kindness in just setting me free that day. Of course, I loved her. Mrs. "Abracadabra" Abbadessa.

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