Beginning writers, and some beginning writing instructors, often blame English teachers for stifling their creativity. Published writers, on the other hand, write in praise of the same.
While it’s true that writing and diagramming compound complex sentences on command can be daunting, it’s also true that the same teacher encouraged students to read and report on books and was the only teacher who asked them to write a poem, an essay, a short story.
Nikki Giovanni writes of Miss Delaney who would let her read and report on any book she wanted. The poet Philip Levine remembers how he was deeply affected when his English teacher Mrs. Paperno read Wilfred Owen’s “Arms and the Boy” then offered to lend him the book. In Teaching Critical Thinking, bell hooks writes about the white, middle-aged English teacher whose willingness to challenge cultural stereotypes and authority served as a model for the gifted young writer. Such teachers are both model and Muse; they are gatekeepers, mentors, heralds, guardians, helpers, and companions along the way.
For me, Maryanne Sullivan, who taught English in 6th, 7th, and 8th grades, was the incarnation of all those archetypes. I lived in a rural home that had no books, and I’d read every book in the classroom library when she joined our school. She loved to read, write, and paint, and she liked to have fun.
I remember the first time she asked us to write a short story. I’d read The Count of Monte Cristo and empathized with the idea of being trapped, so I tried my hand at writing from inside prison walls, planning my escape. I don’t remember what her comments were, but I know today she heard my heart’s cry.
When my mother refused to let me get a library card, Mrs. Sullivan gained permission and arranged for me to use her personal card at the City Library. While I didn’t have access to the adult sections, the classics were considered to be good for children: I read the Bronte sisters, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain; I read Emily Dickinson and Carl Sandburg.
In the classroom, we wrote journals—full pages of anything we wanted. This habit continues to this day, and I include journal writing at the beginning of most classes I teach. She also had us memorize long poems, and while it was painful to deliver “The Raven” or “Little Orphan Annie” in front of the whole class, I developed a lifelong love of oral interpretation.
One spring, we studied haiku. I internalized the form, and it carried me through the long and turbulent summer when my parents separated and we moved away from the farm. Poetry became a centering practice and a way of being in the world.
I never had the chance to properly thank Mrs. Sullivan, or Mr. Adrian, Mr. Clark, or Mr. Duffin—all those English teachers who painstakingly showed me how to craft a sentence, a paragraph, an essay –but today I’m proud to stand in their ranks.
