 In 1967 my son went to a community school with three rooms for six grades. His second-grade teacher. a slender, sweet-looking woman, was severely disabled by rheumatoid arthritis. Without being told to do so, students in her class took care of her in every way they could. Carrying her bag and books. Voluntarily doing whatever she was not able to do, like erasing the board or holding a pile of paper while she handed out a page to each student. Students adored her. She was an astute and caring teacher who took time to know each child in her class. One day she said to my son, who preferred to do what he was good at, “It’s time to stop doing math and start drawing.” He didn’t want to stop, but he did. Later, he told me how he didn’t like drawing, but it was Miss Morley, as if this explained everything. He put away his math book and picked up a box of crayons and drawing paper. When he finished, she looked at what he’d done and smiled. He told me he knew he wasn’t really an artist but Miss Morley made him feel like one. When I visited the class, I noticed how she praised a student who had struggled with reading. “You’re really good at puzzles.” When my son came home from school full of what happened in class—it was almost always about Miss Morley. The stories she told. The activities she planned. How she spoke in a quiet voice, never yelling. How good she was at explaining things. He told me how often she laughed. “No,” he said, correcting himself. “She giggles,” giggling as he told me about her giggling. One day the class prepared to take a field trip to Wilmington, a city about six miles from where we lived—an area resembling a small English village. The assignment was to write about what they noticed and how they felt about what they saw. Each student had a small notebook in which to write—the beginning of a series of essays centered on experiencing something new. When my son came home, he was full of excitement. “We saw a crippled person. He was trying to cross the street but there were lots of cars. He just stood on the sidewalk. We helped him across so he didn’t have to worry about cars.” I was surprised at how he made it sound as if he’d never seen a disabled person before. “But you see a ‘crippled’ person every day at school. Miss Morley is ‘crippled.’” “No she’s not,” he protested. “She’s Miss Morley.” What shapes your perception of people?
2 Comments
Oh I love this story. It reminds me of a children's book. I can't remember the title, but the teacher is in a wheelchair and her sixth grade students enter a math contest. I do remember that the teacher was depicted as a whole person, her wheelchair wasn't a huge part of the story.
Marlene Simon
4/6/2025 05:14:01 pm
Another great one. It's so fascinating to me that I can barely remember any of my junior high and high school teachers but I remember all of m elementary school teachers and that was a very, very long time ago. And how interesting that your son didn't see his teacher's affliction. What a lesson that is. His love and respect for her colored the realty of her situation. Would that we could do that with everyone? Or most everyone. Leave a Reply. |
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Nancy King is a widely published author and a professor emerita at the University of Delaware, where she has taught theater, drama, playwriting, creative writing, and multidisciplinary studies with an emphasis on world literature. She has published seven previous works of nonfiction and five novels. Her new memoir, Breaking the Silence, explores the power of stories in healing from trauma and abuse. Her career has emphasized the use of her own experience in being silenced to encourage students to find their voices and to express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences with authenticity, as a way to add meaning to their lives.
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