Honoring Teachers: Miss Burns - by Nan Brooks

Miss Burns' summer shoes.

A late-night TV host said last night that parents all over the country who are at home trying to teach their kids don’t need to be reminded to honor the teachers. “Give them this National Teachers Week, give them Shark Week, give them all the weeks!”  (Maybe Seth Myers?)

In 1947, Miss Burns ran a kindergarten in our neighborhood before it was added to the nearest elementary school. She had a soft voice with gentle edges, even when she had to be loud. She walked with a particular bounce in her step, which some kids made fun of, but I loved because my father had the same distinctive gait. She wore what we called “nun shoes” – lace up oxfords with stout heels – black in winter, white in summer.  When I played Eleanor Roosevelt I spent 10 years looking for shoes just like Miss Burns’ and was triumphant when I found them.  Miss Burns wore skirts because that’s what women did, pants would have been scandalous. Her skirts came to well below her knees, the better for modesty when she knelt or bent to tend to her children. And her perfume! I can still smell her beautiful scent these 73 years later.  I adored her.

Miss Burns was gentle with children and clearly loved each of us: the little girl who wet her pants all the time, the rowdy boys, the ones who couldn’t sit still, the ones who were extra obedient. She was glad to see us every morning and I was innocent enough to believe that was true. Her classroom in a tiny storefront next to the neighborhood grocery was a haven of color and music and softness. There were pillows and cushions and rugs for sitting. Sunlight streamed in the big window across the front, though I don’t remember that we could see out. No matter, the world inside was just fine. I even liked the sound of the wooden blocks when a tower collapsed. Miss Burns had a little chair, low to the floor with a very straight back, like hers. She sat there to read to us. Miss Burns thought I was smart and that she could count on me to be helpful. Rest time, when we lay on rugs and were silent together was my favorite part of the day; there was something magical in the group silence.

One morning my father walked me to kindergarten and we stopped to gather up Janie Mosiman on the way. Janie’s family was the talk of the neighborhood. Her father was a drunk, the grown-ups said in a shining fit of hypocrisy. They said there were too many children. Now I find such judgment appalling, but I didn’t know better then. I just knew I liked Janie a lot and I was afraid of her older brothers. Perhaps my father saw more than I knew, maybe he recognized a child who needed kindness. In any case, on this rare morning he walked Janie and me to kindergarten. One moment of that walk is clear in my memory. We walked under a long arching avenue of trees in full leaf, the scent of lilacs on the air, holding my father’s hands. He asked, “If you could wish for anything, what would you wish for?”  I said jewelry to wear. Janie said world peace. I was ashamed of my greed and impressed with her generosity.

I don’t know what became of Janie Mosiman and her violent older brother. I hope she has peace wherever she may be.

Miss Burns sent us off to first grade at James Whitcomb Riley School  #43 and followed us there a year later as her kindergarten became part of the curriculum. I stayed at the school for the next 8 years all the way through eighth grade and some stellar teachers. Seventh and eighth-grade students could earn class credit by helping teachers of lower grades. Looking back, I see that we were free labor who could do the unskilled tasks, but then I just felt important. I drew the kindergarten somehow and loved it. I mixed the powdered paints into jars of water and made sure the easel was ready for the next round of painters, helped get out the rugs for rest time, made sure the milk and cracker snacks were ready. This required pulling the half-pint glass bottles out of the dark green cooler in the hallway, using an ice pick to pierce the cardboard inserts in the bottle necks, counting out three saltines for each child, and carrying the heavy tray from the hallway into the classroom. I found particular satisfaction in stabbing the cardboard in each little bottle, aiming for dead center.

I can still remember the beautiful round brown face of one little boy who had a terrible time learning to tie his shoes. I think his name was Charles. Shoe tying must have been one of the skills required for promotion to first grade or something, because Miss Burns was quite worried about him. She asked me to see if I could teach him. “Try one way,” she said, “and if that way doesn’t work, try another way. No matter what, be patient.” Words to live by.  

I remember sitting cross legged next to Charles on the cold floor as we tried and tried. When he began to cry, I wrapped him in a hug and pulled him onto my lap. “Let’s try the secret way,” I said.  This startled me because I had no idea what the secret way was or why I had said it. It startled Charles too, his eyes opened wide and a big grin swept over his face. He turned in my lap and grabbed my hands to tie his shoes, but I said, “You can do it all by yourself.” And he did!  Charles tied his shoes. We showed Miss Burns, who asked him to show her how he did it and untied them. Seeing the fear in his eyes, I said, “Remember the secret way?”  Charles tied his shoes again.

Miss Burns gave me that triumph. She gave Charles that triumph. She changed lives with her gentleness and love.

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