English teachers were always my nemesis. Too many rules. Too much spelling. Not that I didn’t need them — I did. They were my only access to literature.

I’ve written before that when I was in elementary school my learning disabilities were diagnosed as laziness and disruptive behavior — talking too much. I’d start every year in the third reading group, our desks bunched together to remind us of our lowly status. (As the year went by, and my reading improved, my teacher would ceremoniously allow me to drag my desk to second reading group; and by the end of the year, I’d get to drag it to first reading group. I’ll always remember the look on the faces of the friends I was leaving). And, each of those teachers pointed out to me that my handwriting was horrible, and warned me that the teachers in junior high wouldn’t put up with it.

Junior High

In junior high, the battle with my teachers continued. At Fannin Junior High, one of my teachers read one of my papers to the class — but I barely passed. (I received a ‘P’ in conduct). In journalism class at Fannin, I was permanently assigned to the dark room to make pictures for the newspaper and yearbook. All the other photographers were banned from the dark room for smoking. When I asked my teacher if I could stay in class, she thought I was joking. Here, too, my teachers pointed out to me that my handwriting was horrible, and that the teachers in high school wouldn’t put up with it.

High School

When I was a junior at Amarillo High, I told my English teacher I was going to the University of Texas Law School. She told me I didn’t have the grades and should consider something else. For decades neurologists have known that injured brains can find ways around their injuries. Learning disabilities are much the same. As you grow older, your brain can work around those problems. I’d read that sometimes it’s gradual, but for some, it happens with a sudden realization. A click.

In the August before my senior year in high school, I felt my mind click. It was like the clouds cleared away, and I awoke to a new world. It was not all pleasant because I could see, mostly for the first time, the impediments to my dreams. I grew angry at what I saw and my demeanor changed.

Mrs. White

But now I could also see opportunities to overcome my situation. That year, for the first time, I made ‘A’s instead of ‘C’s — except in English. I was lucky enough to get the tough, no-nonsense Mrs. White. I was frustrated because I wasn’t allowed in her advanced class — I didn’t have the grades.

When I told her after the first report card that she was the only teacher who did not give me an ‘A’, she gave me a big smile (tall and thin, she enjoyed looking down at her students at their desks from over her reading glasses, especially when she was delivering a ‘zinger’) and she said, “Then I guess your other teachers are too easy.”

What a challenge! For the first time, I had an English teacher who didn’t doubt my abilities. She demanded more of me. I got my ‘A’s from her after that, though she complained that she must be getting easy. I loved that woman. If I could find her now, I’d send her a copy of my book. She helped write it.

She’d make me type my papers, though. She wouldn’t put up with my handwriting.