I Was a Middle-Aged Co-EdPart 4 of 4

Was It Worth It?

By Terry J. Ward

Mr. Eppner. Mrs. Lounsberry. Mrs. Wilbur. Mr. Parsons. And last, but certainly not least, Mr. McCarrick.

Those of us from the area that are of a certain age group will remember these names and the context in which they are thought of. If you don't remember them, I'm sure you have your own collection.

I went to junior high school back in the halcyon years before the great middle-school experiment. All of those people were teachers of mine. I remember them all for different things. Mr. Eppner was cool. I think he was from New York City, and his wife was a friend of my mother's so he actually came to our house. Sort of a more earthly version of Tony Curtis. Mrs. Lounsberry. Nobody could explain math like Mrs. Lounsberry. I don't know how she did it, but she was at the same time patrician, yet motherly. And then there was Mrs. Wilbur. I nearly failed her English class, the first time I had ever come so close to failing anything. She was demanding, but, you know, she was really a nice lady, too. Mr. Parsons. My first crush on a teacher. Many a grammar class was made unwittingly entertaining by him. Mr. McCarrick. He just plain scared the dickens out of everybody. I hated his class until the day that Mike Fowler tipped over in his chair and we all sat in amazement as a smile cracked that crotchety, lined face of his and he actually laughed. He was still something of a tyrant, but I liked him after that, and our class had a special bond with him.

I loved school, always did. But I think the teachers that made the most impression on me were my junior high teachers. My elementary school teachers were a mixed bag, mostly nice, but not really the ones who stood out in my life. In high school the teachers just didn't have the same impact. (Probably because boys, clothes, and fiddling with my looks were a much more important source of interest to me at that point.)

Junior High teachers were touchable gods. Walking down the polished corridors, you felt that your world was ordered, stable, safe. And these people to whom you were entrusted each day of your early adolescent life were the epitome of that order, stability and safety.

In that refined, professional air, where women dressed in stockings and dresses and men wore suits and ties, you found something to emulate. I wanted to be part of that rarified club that they belonged to. Through all the years that separated me and the world of junior high, I never forgot what it was like to walk those halls, or sit in those classes, or be surrounded by those teachers.

Was it all worth it? Was it worth interrupting my life and the lives of everyone in my family to go back to school and get my passport into that club? How can you ask?

I don't officially belong to that club yet. In four years and hundreds of resumes later, I've had only two teaching interviews - and been offered neither job. I'm not complaining though. I've learned a lot of things about being a teacher that I don't think that I could have learned in college. It humbled me immeasurably. When a chance to become a member of the club comes my way, I will be the best that I can be.

Right now, I work as an aide for a school district and already the satisfaction is beginning to make its way into my life. Just recently, a young girl told her mother (who happens to be one of my friends from junior high), "Mrs. Ward helped me with my paper." That quiet, rather blushing declaration literally choked me up. I HELPED her. Yes, everything was worth it. And I'm probably more of a member of the club than I know.