A talk with my granddaughter got me looking at old year books. Sixth grade, specifically. That year the sixth grade used the east wing as the rest of the new junior high school was being built around them. That year was memorable: sack lunches brought over from a nearby elementary school, no blackboards or lights for the first few months and my teacher, Mrs. Mildon.
She turned out to be my favorite teacher and that was some doing because mostly I liked my teachers. I can’t think of a one that I didn’t learn something from. It’s just, some things I learned were good and some not so much.
Mrs. Mildon taught the good. Taught more than school work. She taught us honesty, empathy, and to reach further than we thought we could. Plus, she created a creative writing class. In fifth grade I’d decided to be a writer like Louisa May Alcott. The idea of a class just for writing tiptoed want through my heart. One hundred and forty one students tried out for the class( a complete shock to the school district), only 35 could qualify. Oh, how I wanted to be in that class. I didn’t dare tell my parents how much I wanted it or how worried I was I wouldn’t make the cut. I don’t think I ever wanted anything like that before. My need frightened me more than anything I’d ever done because whether I was in the class or not, depended on me.
The day the class members were announced I remember feeling relief and pride and that awful, bittersweet taste when you get something and your friends don’t. You don’t feel like gloating, but you think your friends might think you feel like gloating so you can’t jump in the air and pump your fists but you can’t keep the silly, prideful grin from your face completely either. And you say you’re sorry about them not getting in, but really all you really feel is glad you did. It’s just a terrible, wonderful feeling and a sixth grader doesn’t know how to handle it, but that’s the day you start to learn how.
We made a collection of the work the class did that Mrs. Mildon deemed exceptional, my first experience with an editor. I don’t remember much about the class except the free writing with prompts. What I do remember is how hard I worked to get my writings picked for the collection and the pride I felt when one did.
On the last two pages of the collection, I found two quotes Mrs. Mildon included. Today, as I work so hard with my poetry and struggle with my other writing: novels, essays, short stories, these quotes seem so appropriate. Perfect.
Beauty and sharpness of expression, yes, but sincerity first!
And on the last page: To the creative writing class: Give your words wings—but remember, “I’ll never write a line I have not heard in my own heart.” Rostand
The creative writing class discontinued mid-year when Mrs. Mildon was diagnosis with breast cancer. It was 1962-63. Breast cancer was a killer. Yet, Mrs. Mildon lived three more years, kept working right up until she died. She encouraged her students to always try harder. And I am.
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