My Mother the Teacher

My mother is a teacher. This fact has shaped every aspect of my life . A vague, shadowy memory from early childhood harolds my mother's re-entry into the workplace after having left for nearly five years through two pregnancies. The moment of my mother's return to the classroom is one of those convient childhood memories that actually marks an important moment in one's life (I don't know about the rest of you, but most of my pre-sixth birthday memories are of mundane and frankly unmemorable occurances). From that day forward, I was "the teacher's daughter".

Since my mother taught in the arts and taught locally, nearly every child in our community had class at one point or another with Mama. This was a nightmare for a terribly nerdy little girl who was already different enough without her mother's help. Moreover, I think that at some level it served to awkwardly highlight the socio-cultural differences between my family and our neighbors. In the working class community where I grew up, my parents were the only parents who had gone to college (and grad school as well). Often this fact was used by those around us to explain just about everything about my family. Why my sister wore all black, even in the heat of summer, why I won the school's geography bee but only had on friend, why our lawn contained the sole "Clinton" sign in a sea of "Dole". So as whispers of elitism whirled about us (and by the way this could not have been further from the truth, but that is a different post), Mama sat and taught the gossips children opera. Thanks, there Mama dearest!

But all that is only half, no a quater, of the story about my mother being a teacher. I stand now on the brink of an "academic" career (whatever that means). Soon I will attempt to find employment in a field that really asks two principle activites from its participants: research and teaching. My love of research speaks to the shy, nerdy(I didn't have a date to the prom!) girl I have always been and I imagine I will always be. But I cannot think of teaching without thinking of my mother, thought our disiplines and students could not be further apart. Mama in the classroom was a sight to behold. She was effective, organized, and tender. While she was a wonderful mother, she was not any of these things at home. When I watched my mother teacher, I saw the best parts of her emerge. The parts of her that where natural and real. The parts that had not been formed neither in rebellion against strict, traditional parents nor in response to an overwhelming pressure to conform and be a "good wife and mother". She moved with grace and power. She radiated fun and knowledge. My feminism was born more in watching my mother teach than in listening to her endless lectures on the subject. When my mother taught, I knew that women could be strong, powerful, nuturing, brave, tender, and loving all at the same time. Her students adored her and came to love her subject matter, no matter how elitist it was. My first teacher was often many of her students best teacher.

And so Mama dear, if you are reading this (which I hope you aren't) know that while there are many times I glance in the mirror and see you or comfort a friend and hear you, it is when I am doing what you love to do best that I hope I am most like you.