I remember back when I was in the seventh grade—a pubescent boy in the beginning stages of acne and that gawky period in life we all have to endure for a season—or two. This was the year I found myself on the third floor in Ms. Flickinger’s homeroom.
Ms. Flickinger was my favorite teacher that seventh grade year; there was just something about her quirky mannerisms and enthusiasm that drew me in, and made me love school. Of course it probably also had something to do with the stories she told about her cannibalistic goldfish, or maybe it was due to the fact that she caught me after I’d completely plagiarized my report from the encyclopedia; instead of nailing me, she let me know with subtle hints that she knew and wanted me to know that she knew.
I never plagiarized another paper after being in her class.
There’s something about having a teacher like Ms. Flickinger that makes the year go so much easier, a magical something that helps you to look forward to getting up and going to school each day. Okay, I have to admit here that I had a little bit of a crush on her – you know, just to be honest.
After my eighth grade year, Ms. Flickinger moved to another school and I went to high school.
But I’ve never forgotten her.
Fast forward to now.
I’ve been a full-fledged teacher for just a breath over a decade now. This past week I sat in my classroom reading over my students’ journal entries. As I reached the end of one particular entry I came across a P.S.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told that goldfish story…