Mrs. Coffee didn’t recommend me for the gifted program in kindergarten. My mother was furious. She marched down to the school a block and a half from our house and insisted I be tested. She didn’t want me to go to any other school than our neighborhood school which was being converted to a gifted school. There are few things which I remember from kindergarten—painting a Native American ceramic face, trying to figure out if I was right or left-handed, being embarrassed by my mother’s fake cheetah fur coat in the doorway as she picked me up, her overly made-up rouge cheeks smiling at me, her hand waving. I now appreciate how my mother was an advocate for my education, when I was too shy for the teacher to think that I was smart.
In second grade, I was in the lowest reading group. I also had a speech problem—no one could understand me. I had two older sisters, so for the first few years of my life, only they understood what I said, translated for me, as I pointed to things that I needed. I was signed up for speech with Ms. Rose, who thought that it would take years for people to be able to understand me. She was not used to working with gifted children. My father had offered me a dollar if I could say “slippery seals.” I practiced all day, and at the end of the day, was able to say it clearly and put my hand out for the anticipated cash. Flash some green and I was a talking machine.
In fourth grade, I received four Bs on my report card, and my father didn’t speak to me for weeks. My mother had to finally have a talk with him. But from then on, I vowed to get all As. It won me a top scholarship to University of Michigan, but I was stressed out in the process. I managed to keep up all As until college. I still graduated college with honors, but let slide a bit of my obsession with perfectionism. It wasn’t healthy. Best to be balanced.
Now, I teach my students how to question, challenge, fight for their grades. I realized when I became a teacher, just how subjective some grades are—how I wished I would have spoken up more and questioned some of my teachers in college. But I also teach my students how to think critically. The most important thing is what you learn in the process of a class, the things you take away, and what you learn in yourself from an interaction with a teacher. It’s ridiculous to think you are going to like everyone, but sometimes we have good enemies, a Native term. Our good enemy is the teacher which teaches us a lesson we might not otherwise have learned.
Sometimes, I am still that shy, little girl who no one sees as gifted. But now, instead of just painting a ceramic Native American face, I now know my own Native American roots as well. I sink my energy deep into the ground, so that even if no one sees what I am really capable of, deep inside myself, I know. Sometimes, that is enough.
How Do You Keep A Guy Interested After Sleeping With Him
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*How Do You Keep A Guy Interested After Sleeping With Him*. Don’t rush him
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3 years ago
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