On Why I Became a Teacher…

When I was five years old I developed severe and mysterious hip pain in both legs and spent several days in a Portland hospital.  After a misdiagnosis of cancer (that was an interesting few days for me and my parents!), I was finally diagnosed with a hip disorder that forced me to spend the next six months confined to bed in a body cast, and I had to start first grade several weeks late (we didn’t have kindergarten back then).  I was forced to start school on crutches because one hip had healed while the other was still not strong enough to walk on, and I admit to being a little shaky on them and more than a little scared.  And, in fact, I did struggle some at first making friends; nine weeks is a lifetime when you are six, and the other kids had already developed childhood friendships that it took me some time to become part of.

But that’s not really the story.  On that first day in the fall of 1956 as I hobbled into the first grade classroom at Willamette Grammar School I saw her.  Her name was Miss Wallace and she had ruby red lips, and she smelled really good, and she was my teacher, and I was head over heels in love with her.  I remember her telling my mom that because I was starting school weeks late I was going to need help learning to read, otherwise it would surely affect me throughout my schooling.  Without even hesitating she said she would tutor me for a half hour after school three days a week until I caught up, and so she did. 

Make no mistake, Dorothy Wallace was no push over.  She held me to high academic and behavioral standards and when I would complain in my childish way about the crutches and how hard it was, she would have none of it.  She told me, in part because at that time we really didn’t know if I would ever walk normally again, that life was hard and that feeling sorry for myself was just a waste of energy.  On the other hand, I did notice that every time I had to climb the stairs (our classroom was in the basement) she coincidentally seemed to be right behind me.  I remember her saying to me more than once that the only obstacles I would have in my life were the ones I created in my own mind.  I didn’t really understand what she meant back then, but over the years her words would inspire me in the classroom, on the athletic field, and in my personal life.  By the end of first grade thanks to the dedication of Dorothy Wallace I was well on my way to having an outstanding school experience for the next eleven years.  I owe it all to her.

But here’s the rest of the story:  Decades later when I finally had enough sense to realize what she had meant to me I got out my old school pictures and discovered to my surprise that Dorothy Wallace was a pleasant but not outstandingly beautiful woman.  More importantly, for the very first time I realized that her hands were deformed from what looked to be arthritis, and she must have been in great pain every day as she completed her teaching duties. No wonder she didn’t “cut me any slack” around my possible physical issues; she knew what it would take to survive in the real world and she wanted to prepare me for the harsh realities of life while she taught me to read.  Tragically, and to my shame, she died before I could thank her for all she did for me. 

So as corny as it sounds I have dedicated my career as an educator to her memory.  What a remarkable teacher she was, and I can only pray that I might influence young lives half as much as she did mine.  Miss Wallace, thank you from the bottom of my heart.  After all these years I still love you.

We’ll talk again,

Larry

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