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ARIEL DEITCH, Age 12
A Tutor Like No Other
My name is Michael Pineda, I am 12 years old and I am in the eighth grade at Museum Middle School in Yonkers. When I was in the third grade I had the best teacher in the whole world, Carol Symanski.
I was very happy when I went to the fourth grade and she moved up with the class. In January 1999 when I was in the fifth grade I became very sick. I was in and out of Westchester Medical Center and at the end of February I finally came home in a wheelchair. Because I had no strength in my legs and my fingers were kind of twisted, I was not able to go to school and my mother called the Board of Education to request that Ms. Symanski tutor me, but she was told that Ms. Symanski was not on the tutors list. Within minutes Ms. Symanski was calling my mom to find out what was wrong with me. I forgot to mention that Ms. Symanski was no longer at School 31; she was working in another school. She said no problem and in a couple of days she was tutoring me every day. I was not the best student at that time; I was in a lot of pain and did not want to do the work but she was persistent and determined to teach me and she did.
When I went back to school in May I was at the same level as my classmates and I graduated with my class and went on to middle school in the academically talented and gifted program. I will remember Ms. Symanski always as a very special teacher and person.
Politics as a Lesson in Life
I walked into my senior year political science class expecting nothing more than to learn about politics in an election year. I walked out of my political science class having had my life changed. Colleen Roche has an incredible passion for what she does. Our class, at the Masters School in Dobbs Ferry, was not simply reading out of a textbook, but reading The New York Times every day, debating political issues and following the election intently.
I never expected to be in a politics class studying a groundbreaking, historical election but Ms. Roche made me think: about what party I belonged to, which platforms I supported, and most important, that I could have an impact on who led our country.
I doubt that anyone who ever stepped foot in her classroom would waive the right to vote. She made me realize that being knowledgeable about the world around you is the most essential thing in life. She made us gain a broader perspective by defending a candidate that we didn't necessarily support. While she taught us about each candidate, she never let us know which party she belonged to. She wanted us to make our own decisions, rather than having her make them for us.
I am now a college student, and I plan to incorporate politics into my career in some way. I am forever grateful that she shared her expertise with us, and I continue to wonder why she never sought a career in Washington.
The Feel-Good Comma
Mrs. Koziol was my son Seth's third-grade teacher in Increase Miller Elementary School in Katonah. He was a child with ''grapho-motor issues,'' which means that no matter how hard he tried, his handwriting was just about impossible to read. Many teachers (until Seth learned to type), would refuse to read what he had written, or would say ''can't you write better?'' (If I could, Seth would say, I would think, wouldn't I do so in an effort to avoid your anger and frustration?)
Mrs. Koziol always had the patience to decipher what Seth had written. She would then make positive comments about the content and would make lovely comments about particular letters well done. One time, unable to find a good letter, she circled a comma and wrote, ''What a good comma Seth!''
This was a person who wanted to make sure that students felt good about what they could do. In a wonderful piece of good luck, Mrs. Koziol went from teaching third grade to fourth, and Seth had her for two years! Seth has had many more good teachers since third and fourth grade, though he always says ''but they are not Mrs. Koziol.''
A Mentor for a Rebel
1968 may have been a good year for Cabernet but for me, at age 13, it was a disaster. I was a product of a broken home with all of the accompanying anxieties and had just entered Dobbs Ferry High School. I excelled in anger and disruptive behavior with a minor in rebellion and bitterness. I was doing so well in these subjects that the school administration started to process my promotion to an institution for students supposedly to learn to fix things, but its actual purpose was to remove those whose disruptive behavior contaminates the traditional academic environment. At this point in my life my mentor, a guidance counselor at the high school, surfaced. He was about to launch my career and I didn't even realize it! He influenced the administration to cancel their ''promotion'' efforts and arranged for me to remain in Dobbs Ferry High in the morning and to work in a training program for future gas station owner/operators in the afternoon. (I'm sure this was one of the first few examples of a work-study program.) This was only the beginning. For four years he was always there for me. Weekends, evenings or whenever my need arose, he made himself available. He gave me large doses of caring, was not judgmental and never reprimanded me for my many behavior lapses. It was the first time an adult listened to me and cared.
As in ''Tuesday With Morrie'' our paths took different turns when I ended college. We reunited 10 years later. My mentor was then director of Graham's School and shortly thereafter he became the county clerk of Westchester. As the years passed our friendship continued to flourish as did our careers. I now own and operate one of the largest emergency road service and auto repair facilities in Westchester County. My counselor and mentor, Andy Spano, is now the county executive. Andy, thanks for going the extra distance.
A Project of Pride
Mrs. Frusciante, my fifth-grade teacher at the Westorchard School, was a great teacher in so many ways. She knew what my potential was, and made me live up to it. She gave us a project called ''All About Me,'' where we were made a book that described ourselves in different ways on each page. I happen to be a very slow worker. I remember being terrified that I would never finish the entire book in time. It turned out that I did finish it, and it was one of the pieces of work I am most proud of. When the project was done, I realized that Mrs. Frusciante knew what kind of assignment we could complete, and wouldn't give us something we couldn't do.
Everything Mrs. Frusciante did was special. Even the way she held a book was amazing. She would hold it in her lap, facing us, but she looked like it was one of her most prized possessions.
Ever since I was little, I wanted to be a teacher. I think that being a teacher seems like the most fun and rewarding job there is. I hope that if do become a teacher someday, I will teach my students as well as Mrs. Frusciante taught me.
Robert E. Bell Middle School
Inspiring a Love of French
One teacher who looms large in my high school memory was Sister Maria Mystica. She taught French at Mount Saint Mary Academy in Watchung, N.J., and from my first day of high school, when I walked into her room, I was hooked. She was fun, interesting and strict. She did not let us get away with anything. She so motivated me my freshman year, that I won the French prize that year. I never won it again. In fact, I did not deserve to. I knew in my heart that I had not earned it that second year or the third. And I respected her more for not giving it to me, when everyone else assumed she would.
During our junior year, Sister Mystica celebrated her Silver Jubilee: 25 years of being a Sister of Mercy.
Senior year, she was gone. The first day of school we were all devastated. Where was she? She left not only the school, she also left the convent, and, as a lay person, began teaching French at an independent day school. What an incredible role model for 16-year-old girls. After 25 years, she changed course and moved on, to another generation of French students whom she would inspire, and in whom she would engender a love of all things French.
I obtained both undergraduate and graduate degrees in French. I have been a teacher for 13 years. It all started with one woman, who taught me to be the best I could be, and that at any point in time, I could change course, and fulfill my destiny.
Head of the Rippowam Campus
Rippowam Cisqua School
Disciples of a Special Faith
Oh Miss Hart.
First we feared you. Every new class of ninth graders did.
''Who'd you get for English?''
Always the plaid skirt, Judy Garland cropped hair and caked-on makeup, left hand on hip, right index finger honing in on your next subject.
''MISTER Hanson. What [pause] have you done to the English language TODAY?''
At Brighton High School in Rochester, other teachers taught English; you worshiped it. Other classes learned to write; we learned the craft of writing. And one by one we became disciples of your special faith. We learned to trust the language, to trust you and finally to trust ourselves. You taught us everything by teaching us nothing. You used language to tear us into pieces and then showed us how to use language to find the one voice capable of building ourselves back up -- our own. You inspired us beyond any image we previously held of our lives or our futures. Language surged through your classroom like electricity -- precise, powerful and penetrating.
In nine months you became the audience, we became the orators; you became the reader, we became the poets, essayists and novelists. How did you manage to pass your gift onto us so effortlessly, so completely? Leaving your class was like losing sight of the stars at dawn. Such perfection cannot survive the rising reality of the next ordinary, inevitable day.
But following a summer of ordinary days, we returned to school to find you gone. Rumor had it that you had been working for years, secretly, on your masterpiece, an unduplicated manuscript that was lost suddenly in a freakish flood that soaked nearly every basement in town. Did you give up then? Succumb to the fear of the cancer that was lying in wait for weakness and vulnerability? Don't know. Do know that you took yourself away, left us to fend for ourselves.
''Miss Hart died last summer.''
Cancer took your life. Cruel fate took your life's work. We took you for our own and will never forget you.
Oh Miss Hart.
Science and Honesty, Firsthand
''Yes! Science is next!'' That was what I said every day in sixth grade before third period. That year wasn't a year where we learned out of a textbook with a quiz every week. Instead my class performed hands-on experiments and learned about the scientific method firsthand. It was the best year of science and Linda Deedon was the most incredible teacher! She expected the most from us -- not just 80, 90 or even 100 percent but 110 percent in everything we did. She taught me so many things, not only about science, but also about life.
One thing that Ms. Deedon taught me was to be honest and always tell the truth. One day, I forgot to get a permission slip signed for a class trip. Without thinking, I put in my Dad's signature and handed it in. Later that day, after school, I felt so guilty, I told my Mom what happened. She told me to tell Ms. Deedon the truth. The next day when I told Ms. Deedon, she gave me a big hug and said she was proud of me for telling the truth. I told her that I was sorry and that it would never happen again. I even got to go on the trip. From that day on, I walked with a different feeling in my heart and I owe it all to Ms. Deedon, the No. 1 teacher in the world!
SARAH HOCHMAN, Age 12
Fans and Honored Guests
She had a head full of sandy-colored hair that she wore in almost a Gibson Girl style, and usually wore ''sensible'' laced shoes. Her voice sounded like velvet. Her smile and her warmth were always apparent to me, and even at 10 years old I knew that she loved children. I suspect that most of our fourth-grade class at P.S. 114 loved her in return.
One day, my friend Barbara, also an ardent member of our own Miss Reinhardt fan club, and I, asked if we could visit her at home. To our absolute delight and surprise, she said yes. Miss Reinhardt gave us a date two Saturdays hence, so we had the added pleasure of exquisite anticipation while waiting for that wonderful day.
The Saturday dawned sunny and warm, a perfect spring day. Barbara and I set out for her house, she armed with a box of chocolates, and I with a bouquet of flowers. When we arrived at her sunny and bright Riverdale apartment, she greeted us warmly and ushered us into her kitchen, in which the table was set with a colorful cloth and a small vase of flowers. She introduced us to her mother, who chatted with us briefly, and then disappeared, to allow us, I'm sure, to savor the thrill of having our beloved teacher all to ourselves. For no more than an hour we enjoyed our milk and cookies and loved being treated with the obvious status of honored guests.
I wonder whether Marguerite Reinhardt ever knew just how happy she made two little girls, by sharing a bit of her private self with us. How kind she was to do that, and now, more than half a century later, I still remember, with great fondness, that very special April afternoon.
First Lesson in Power of Words
My first day of school had arrived and I was ready! Lining up quickly, I followed the other children into the classroom at P.S. 60 in the Bronx. We sat in rows and I was somewhere in the middle. Busy scouring my new surroundings, I hadn't paid too much attention to the teacher until she stood up and softly summoned us to be quiet. She was a commanding figure, tall and slender, in her early 50's with flawless skin and piercing blue eyes. She stopped to nod at each student. Then, like a celebrity addressing her fans, she smiled, allowing us into her sanctuary. I was instantly smitten. . I felt privileged to be in her class.
The other teachers greeted her so cheerfully that I was certain Mrs. Fell held a special status in the building. Surely, I thought, she must live in the building and is taken care of by the cooks and custodians. I kept asking my mother if she knew where Mrs. Fell lived. My mom's explanation was hardly plausible. My teacher could not possibly be like the rest of us. Every morning she appeared in a freshly pressed dress that swished softly as she moved around the room. Her silver gray hair was neatly combed back and tied at the nape with a dark ribbon. In the winter she wore pastel colored cashmere sweaters over her dress and always smelled of lavender.
She helped everyone learn their numbers and letters and she assigned a lot of homework. Mostly, she made the children listen and we adored her. A word of praise from her was a prized possession and we all strived to obtain it. We made illustrated alphabet books and mine was both colorful and clever. I had quickly caught on that Mrs. Fell called on students with exceptional drawings to show their work in front of the class.
My turn came with the letter ''E.'' I drew an exquisite elephant, placing a sombrero with a plume on its head and a fringed blanket on its back. When Mrs. Fell paused by my desk, she opened her eyes as if surprised then exclaimed for all to hear that she'd never seen a prettier picture of an elephant. I was elated. While she smiled at me from the back of the room I proudly held up my drawing. I remember this moment because it set the tone for the rest of my school experience. In retrospect, it taught me a valuable lesson about the power of words and how they impact the lives of others.
Years later, I went for a teaching position in the same district. Mrs. Fell was there, filling out her retirement papers. I approached her knowing she wouldn't remember me. I told her that she'd been my first teacher and that she'd inspired me to be a lifelong learner. She was overjoyed and tearfully hugged me, appreciative of my sharing this moment. It struck me that she was as warm and beautiful as she'd been that first day in first grade.
Scholar and Shaper of Lives
''Bandersnatch 1945,'' the Scarsdale High School Yearbook. Turn the pages; so much has vanished, so many have died, yet our memories are sharp: the World War we were fighting, our seriousness, our dreams, our singleness, and our innocence. Now almost 60 years later, in today's complex world, what parts of high school are still with us? Of course, the people we knew then have shaped our lives and we are still using the facts and methods we learned, but I treasure an additional legacy from one unforgettable teacher, Lucyle Hook.
She was head of the English Department, taught the 11th and 12th grades, and somehow managed to make each student feel special. She helped each of us identify our own interests and abilities, and then insisted that we perform to capacity while stressing clear thinking, attention to detail, careful work and honesty.
But what made her unforgettable was that she embodied the qualities she taught. She was a scholar herself, a recognized authority in the field of English literature, and she enthusiastically shared her discoveries with her classes, while always seeming to value any thoughts we could contribute.
Miss Hook wore her glorious hair in a restrained bun, and although married, she did not believe in the bondage of a wedding ring . . . that's about all I ever learned about Miss Hook's personal life. But her classroom housed a free spirit who legitimized boundless possibilities and independence for women as well as a lifestyle focused on the relevance and excitement of ideas.
(Miss Hook celebrated her 100th birthday on Oct. 29.)
DORIS BECKER LOWENFELS
A Cure for Math Phobia
I have had a longstanding, deeply entrenched math phobia. I always loved the shapes of geometry, but algebra and I were lifelong enemies. Thus, as a doctoral candidate at Fordham University's Tarrytown campus, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into Dr. Kathleen P. King's statistics classroom last fall.
Dr. King's enthusiasm and her willingness to answer what must have seemed like absurdly simple questions, rapidly calmed the twitching in my feet and the screams gathering in my throat. From the very first lecture, her love of the subject was infectious. Her sense of humor combined with her respect for the math phobics in the room was a recipe for the conversion of the panic-stricken. Her patience with our blunders was unbounded. She took what had been a locked room for many of us, and opened it for us to revel in. I actually started to look forward to doing the problems in each chapter, even doing them before they were assigned. I can't quite describe my joy when my calculations worked. Either I had contracted some strange disease, or I had come to enjoy statistics. Frankly, I'll never tell; it's far too much fun letting my friends and relatives think I'm really suffering. After all, they're all as terrified of statistics as I was. I'll just let them go on being impressed and sympathetic, while I happily expand my own teaching career to include mathematics, ever grateful to Dr. King, who opened this door for me.
DERRY B. CROSLEY
Making Music Come Alive
Three years ago I graduated from elementary school. I remember to this day pretty much everything and everyone in that school.
I had a lot of special teachers who meant a lot to me, but one who will always stay in my memory is Mrs. Carol Loatman. She was my music teacher; I couldn't have asked for a better one.
Mrs. Loatman made music come alive for many. For me, she made school fun and I always looked forward to her class. I remember sitting in my class looking at the clock and waiting to line up for music class. About this time, the whole class was excited and ready for the day's music lesson.
At times, I may have thought some lessons were a bit boring. But she'd always make up for the boring times when she brought out the instruments: drums, maracas and rain sticks were just the beginning of the fun.
She also was the chorus instructor. She was probably the only teacher who could control all of the fourth and fifth graders who came (which was pretty much everyone). She also got us all there before school. If I had to get up early now to go to chorus before classes, I would probably be kicked out of chorus. But, she got us all there and we had so much fun! Mrs. Loatman has done so many good things for Carrie E. Tompkins Elementary School and she is definitely one teacher whom no one will ever forget!
Croton-on-HudsonContinue reading the main story