The BDN Opinion section operates independently and does not set news policies or contribute to reporting or editing articles elsewhere in the newspaper or on bangordailynews.com
Colin Fleming is the author of “Sam Cooke: Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963,” an entry in Bloomsbury’s 33 1/3 series. He wrote this column for the Chicago Tribune.
Going back to my days as a schoolboy, the close of summer has always felt to me like a time of beginning. We tend not to think of the incoming autumn this way. Already, we’re nostalgic for the vacation we just took. If we’re headed for school, there’s a certain bemoaning that occurs. There will be all of that structure again! Homework! Perhaps a strict teacher! The horrors.
Most of us eventually leave school behind, but I have long believed that the adult who lives life best starts a form of school again and again, and the early days of a fresh new school year for children can be a perfect reminder.
Recently, I was paid a visit here in Boston by my two nieces, ages 4 and 8, and my nephew, who is 10, from Chicago. We did various Boston activities — Freedom Trail! — and we had chats. Like about the upcoming school year.
Neither of the two older kids were pleased with the teachers they’d been assigned. They were said to not be fun. Foreboding reputations preceded each of them.
“Children,” I said, doing my best to make myself sound like some wise man on a hill and also keep things light, “none of us will ever get anywhere with attitudes like these. Let me tell you about a ‘mean’ teacher I had,” at which point I told them about Ms. Ferris.
She was my third-grade teacher. In first grade, I was a model citizen — dare I say, a paragon of behavior. There was a boy in my class from straitened circumstances. Our teacher would give him money out of her own pocket so that he could have something to eat. I’d be assigned to walk with him to the cafe across the street. These were different times. But my point is, I was trusted.
Come the next year, you’d think I was Marlon Brando in “The Wild One.” Problem child. My teacher was Ms. Pucci. Everyone raved about her. Best pedagogue in the land.
Every day, though, I was in trouble. No recess for me. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I thought I was the same kid. I asked Ms. Pucci what I could do better. She answered, “Colin, you give me cold pricklies, and I want warm fuzzies.”
Ugh. This lady. What are you going to do?
I got through that year and then learned that my teacher for third grade was to be the dreaded Ms. Ferris, who was talked about like she was the Wicked Witch of the West. I half-expected her to be a tint of green. Happiness went to die in Ms. Ferris’ class. I figured, OK, at least she’s not Pucci. I’ll take my chances.
That was my attitude going in. Ms. Ferris was spoken about like she was 108, but she was probably 34. She had us write stories. She encouraged our imaginations. I wrote. And wrote. And wrote some more. Every day I wrote a story.
And each morning I’d share it with Ms. Ferris. Sometimes I wouldn’t even go out for recess, and I was a sporty kid. I’d stay inside, and we’d talk about writing and books. One day, Ms. Ferris said to me, “You have an imagination that other people don’t. It’s a gift. Let it take you places.”
She wasn’t just the best teacher I ever had; she was one of the most important people who has ever been in my life. She helped introduce me to me.
My niece and nephew, both agog, swore to enter the school year with open minds. Because you don’t know until you know. Often, we think we know before we do, and then we never know at all.
So while the days of a crisp apple in your lunch bag and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils may be behind you, they’re also in front of you in a different manner. We’re always free to have the right attitude that allows us to learn. It’s funny that we think that’s a kid thing. Just as it’s ironic that we must grow up and continue to grow by being, at least in part, our own teachers.
I think about Ms. Ferris often as I commit myself to learning things that I didn’t know the day before. The classroom abounds. It’s not solely something in a building or back in your past. ‘Tis the season to be reminded of what it can do for you. Don’t rob yourself of what that means.
The bus awaits, children. And for you adults as well.
