Honoring Teachers: Miss Keith - by Nan Brooks

All these years later, I’m not even sure of her name. But I remember her presence at James Whitcomb Riley School #43 in Indianapolis. She was solid, sturdy both in appearance and in energy. She wore pleated plaid skirts and saddle oxford shoes. Her skirts and sweaters were appropriate in the early 1950s, but the shoes were considered odd. Saddle oxford were for teen-agers, not middle-aged teachers. Of course, she may not have been exactly middle aged, but around age 30. She was definitely what we considered a spinster – unmarried after the age of about 25.

It is her solidity I am struck by all these years later.  I can see her standing in the doorway of her classroom as we moved between classes. The wood floors creaked beneath our feet and the chatter was loud, but there she stood, arms across her chest, unmoving. She was often frowning just a little – not a miserable scowl, just a slight air of disapproval. So we knew we’d better behave ourselves, just in case we’d make her mad. Which strikes me as funny now, because I never saw her angry.

Her slightly stern demeanor made it even more striking to me when she took me under her wing. I wasn’t in her class, but her encouragement made a big difference in my pre-adolescent life. She was in charge of some school event or other, an assembly that the entire school and their parents would attend with a patriotic theme. I remember a collection of short pieces by each grade with a few solos sprinkled throughout. This was  a school with talented and practiced student musicians, dancers, and what we’d now call spoken word performers. Sometimes I performed as a part of that elite group, but usually not. This collage of disparate acts needed an emcee, Miss Keith told me. It needed someone who could introduce each part and, most important, welcome the audience and keep them engaged. I had been selected to be that emcee.

I was shocked and, of course, flattered. Most of all, I was afraid of failing and well aware that I had been given a job that only boys did. I wondered who had chosen me, of all people. I was the shy one, the one who wore hand-me-down clothes and shoes, the one who worked hard but was certainly not a star, not popular, not pretty. There was no logical explanation except that Miss Keith thought I could do it. Maybe some other teachers thought so, too, but Miss Keith was the one who asked and I wanted to please her. I wanted to thank her.

She gave me a list of who would be performing and asked me to write the introductions. This left me even more perplexed. Who in the world thought I could do such a thing? I was about 12 or 13, what did I know? I was also obedient, so I wrote the introductions and she corrected them. Mostly, she told me what I’d written was excellent. I practiced reading aloud at home where no one could hear me. At the big rehearsal a few days before the big show, she nodded and smiled as I read. At the end she asked, “What will you wear?”

My confidence, such as it was, evaporated.  My Aunt Alice often made me beautiful dresses, but I had suddenly outgrown them. I had budding breasts, my hair was ugly, my teeth were crooked and awful, and my mother encouraged me not to smile to hide them. In short, I realized in that moment that my unfortunate appearance would matter. Miss Keith must have seen the terror on my face and mentioned something about contacting my mother. More terror. My mother was working full time to give the family a steady income along with my father's sporadic sales commissions. I knew she was tired and angry most of the time. The pressure to produce a fancy new dress would be too much and I would get the brunt of her anger.

But it didn’t happen. My mother came home from work the very next day with a dress and I still remember the feel of it. It looked like a skirt (blue with white polka dots) and white blouse with a bright red belt. It fit the theme of the big production and I was relieved. But the bodice – oh my. It was sheer in the fashion of that year – see through was not my idea of comfortable! Somehow my mother produced a slip to wear under it. My modesty preserved, I wore that scratchy dress with its plastic red belt and felt OK. Not comfortable, not good, but OK.

Miss Keith didn’t exactly cheer me on; that would have been too emotional for her. But she didn’t cross her arms and frown either. She quietly and simply made it clear that she was confident I could do what she had asked me to do. She had forced me out of my fear without ever mentioning that she knew I was afraid. She took it for granted that I could do what needed to be done.

I can still remember the sound of the audience arriving as I waited backstage. It was the first time I was aware of that blessed sound of anticipation. I remember sweating under that scratchy dress. I had been in a few dance recitals by this time and a couple of spoken performances, but this was different. I wouldn't be someone else; I would have to be me. I walked out to my appointed place, the auditorium quieted, and the magic took over. To my amazement, I spoke clearly and the audience smiled. I smiled back and kept going. I was poised, welcoming, and delighted. I had discovered the circular magic that happens when people gather and enjoy themselves and one another. I had discovered that I had a gift.

Miss Keith saw that gift when few others did or could. She taught me to get out of the way and let the gift come through, to be the instrument. For a moment, I could believe in my gift and that I had the discipline to put it to good use.

That you, Miss Keith, wherever you may be, for the en-courage-met. I’ve done my best to pass it along.

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