Dear Mrs. Warr,
I’m writing this letter with the hope that God allows His newest saint to read it from heaven.
Why am I writing, you may wonder? Well, you see, we have unfinished business.
Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I have unfinished business. You, I’m sure, are up there dancing your little jigs on the golden streets of heaven.
It was only a few short months ago that I sat down and penned a letter to you. I actually mailed it too, but it was returned as “undeliverable.” I guess the address I found online was out-of-date.
Hence, the reason for my very public letter to you.
I am in my first year of teaching. You would be pleased to know that I am teaching your favorite subject…English.
You, my sweet lady, inspired me to enter this most noble of professions.
Honestly, I never imagined…way back when…that I would ever want to teach English. Especially not when I was in sixth and seventh grades.
I had heard the horror stories of what a difficult teacher you were. I watched as students left your final exams with glazed eyes. I do believe I might have seen a few tears.
Whatever those older kids were going through was something I wanted to avoid.
But, I couldn’t.
If you wanted to graduate from D.A., you had to survive Mrs. Warr’s English class.
Though you were small in stature, you commanded our attention. You also struck the fear of God in us every week when you administered your brutal vocabulary tests.
The year we spent studying English literature was one of the most difficult, but your passion and enthusiasm for the subject made it much more bearable.
Not only did you teach us literature and vocabulary, but you drilled grammar rules into all of our heads. I remember diagramming sentences that spanned three chalkboards. Your red pen was merciless on every paper we wrote. It was like shed blood against a white sheet. How we dreaded getting those papers back, and yet with every one of them, our writing improved…to the point where I absolutely live for the portion of the evenings I spend writing my blog.
Not only did you teach English, but you also taught speech and drama. I, of course, took both classes.
One of the most fun things you did every year was the Dinner Theater. To be asked to act in one of your productions was quite the honor. It was also a ton of fun because we got out of a lot of our other classes to rehearse, and what teenager doesn’t like that?
It was mad chaos as we tried to understand your stage directions.
One year, I played a cranky old lady. As we read through the script during class, you made me repeat the same lines over and over because I just could not seem to act it out dramatically enough for you.
Finally, in exasperation, I looked you squarely in the eye, hiked my blue jeans up to my boobage area, and acted out my lines in a manner that, unknowing to you, actually made fun of you (I am ashamed to write this, but I did have an attitude at times).
To my surprise, instead of getting mad at me, you yelled out, “YES, YES! That’s it!! THAT is how you are supposed to play this role.”
You had turned the tables on me. And that is how I played the role. Every time I doubted how I was supposed to act something out, I simply asked myself, “How would Mrs. Warr do this?” I remember drawing quite a few laughs when showtime rolled around.
You worked tirelessly with every single student. I was no exception.
For one assignment, we had to memorize a dramatic soliloquy. I chose Please God, I’m Only 17, which had appeared in an Ann Landers column:
The day I died was an ordinary school day. How I wish I had taken the bus! But I was too cool for the bus. I remembered how I wheedled the car out of Mom. “Special favor,” I pleaded, “all the kids drive.”
When the 2:50 bell rang, I threw all my books in the locker. I was free until 8:40 tomorrow morning! I ran to the parking lot, excited at the thought of driving a car and being my own boss. FREE!
It doesn’t matter how the accident happened. I was goofing off — going too fast. Taking crazy chances. But I was enjoying my freedom and having fun. The last thing I remember was passing an old lady who seemed to be going awfully slow. I heard the deafening crash and felt a terrific jolt. Glass and steel flew everywhere. My whole body seemed to be turning inside out. I heard myself scream.
Suddenly, I awakened; it was very quiet. A police officer was standing over me. Then I saw a doctor. My body was mangled; I was saturated with blood. Pieces of jagged glass were sticking out all over. Strange that I couldn’t feel anything.
Hey, don’t pull that sheet over my head. I can’t be dead. I’m only 17; I’ve got a date tonight. I am supposed to grow up and have a wonderful life. I haven’t lived yet. I can’t be dead.
Later I was placed in a drawer. My parents had to identify me. Why did they have to see me like this? Why did I have to look at Mom’s face when she faced the most terrible ordeal of her life? Dad suddenly looked like an old man. He told the man in charge, “Yes, he is my son.”
The funeral was a weird experience. I saw all my relatives and friends walk toward the casket. They passed by, one by one, and looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Some of my buddies were crying. A few of the girls touched my hand and sobbed as they walked away.
Please…somebody…wake me up! Get me out of here. I can’t bear to see my Mom and Dad so broken up. My grandparents are so racked with grief they can barely walk. My brother and sisters are like zombies. They move like robots. In a daze, everybody! No one can believe this. I can’t believe it either.
Please don’t bury me! I’m not dead! I have a lot of living to do! I want to laugh and run again; I want too sing and dance. Please don’t put me in the ground. I promise if you give me just one more chance, God, I’ll be the most careful driver in the whole world. All I want is one more chance.
Please God, I’m only seventeen.
You worked with me to get every single detail spot on, and when it was perfect, you asked me to perform it before that year’s dinner theater. It made many people cry. I remember reciting those lines like it was yesterday, and I still get chills.
Probably one of my last memories of you was when you helped me write my Salutatorian speech. I had no idea how to attack such a monumental task, but you were with me every step of the way, and the night of graduation, I wasn’t nervous because I knew that you would never have let me embarrass myself.
Oh, Mrs. Warr, I could go on and on. There are so many memories that flood in every time I think of you.
I have often told my own students about you. I always tell them that you lived up to your name.
You demanded excellence. You darned near expected perfection. Much like a general leading troops to war, so you led us through the thick of the fighting…through the perils of our teenage years.
Like battle-weary soldiers, we emerged worn out and a little scarred. But, it was all for our best as your tough standards made us stronger. You expected much, and we rose to meet the challenges you put forth.
It is those expectations that I have held myself accountable to.
Always strive for excellence. Expect it. Do what it takes to achieve it.
It is a motto I work hard to live up to, and I, in turn, demand it from my students.
I wanted to tell you one last thing.
For years, as I sat in front of your desk, I read the plaque you had…”Bloom where you are planted.”
Mrs. Warr, I never, ever forgot that saying.
It truly has been the mantra for my life.
No matter where God plants you, He expects you to grow, be productive, and add beauty to the lives of others.
I painted my classroom green in honor of this saying. Green symbolizes life, energy, and vitality.
Mrs. Warr, YOU epitomized those very things as well.
I thank you from the bottommost reaches of my heart.
Your legacy will go on as the lives you touched will reach out to touch others’ lives and so on and so on.
May we meet in heaven one day where I can tell you thank you personally.
Love,
Nathalie
Filed under: Teaching | Tagged: teachers, teaching, tribute | 1 Comment »
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