In high school I usually received a “B” in English. I had one teacher, Miss Haller, for two years, and every grade was a “B”. In my third quarter of my second year with her, I complained that a majority of my assignments that quarter had been graded “A” rather than “B”. She simply looked at me and said that I was a “B” student and not an “A” student. She did not change my grade. I was particularly upset because Charlie, my good friend and college basketball star, always got an “A” from her.
When I was freshman in college, I took a full-year English course. The famous leader of the course discussed fine poetry and literature in a very detailed manner. He focused on just a few issues or lines. He lectured once a week. Our basic class was different, as it involved meeting in small groups two or three times per week, in addition to the weekly lecture. The female leader of our small group was a graduate student with short height, and very clear and logical speech.
For the entire year we had to write a 2-or-3-page paper, with wide margins (to provide plenty of room for our teacher to write comments), every two weeks. The instructions were detailed. For example, it may be related to a 12-line poem, with directions to address certain lines, repeated language, or meaningful comparisons. When I wrote my first paper I did not understand the detailed assignment, and instead I wrote a weak joke or alternative understanding in part of the paper. The teacher was not amused, and criticized my comment. I met individually with this teacher following most papers, and she tried hard to help me to write better. One memory is that I occasionally mentioned to her the upsetting news about my dad’s alcoholic pattern, and how my sister, Sara, was stuck home for her senior year of high school.
One time, this teacher returned my most recent paper; she used thick red ink, detailed criticism, and had not entered a grade. She required that I meet with her immediately. She then continued to describe the poorly written paper, but instead of giving me a failing grade, she assigned a separate paper to write on a different subject, with specific instructions. I did much better, but in general my grades continued to be C plus or B minus.
We met from 1 to 2 pm on a Friday just prior to the spring vacation in late March. This teacher spent the entire class describing how her students had written badly on the most recent paper, which she had not yet returned to us. What surprised me was that I had not written many of those bad points. At the end of class, she returned our papers to us, and, for the first time, I got an A minus, even though everyone else got poor grades. I was ecstatic. I got my suitcase together, and went to the Boston airport. In those days we could catch a plane at half price if there was room. For many hours, every plane to Milwaukee or Chicago was filled. I finally caught a flight to Chicago late at night, and my dad picked me up after midnight, outside of Chicago. I was still ecstatic.
I got mostly A minus grades in that class for the rest of the year, as my writing had improved. Years later, I published a book (concerning how to use scenes from films to teach psychiatry), and my English had improved.
The last I knew, that wonderful teacher married one of the others teachers, moved to California, and taught English. I wish I remembered her name.