Remembering an Inspiring Teacher
About two months ago, we lost a great man. His name was Jay Criche, and he was a teacher.
He
taught English for 30 years, 23 of them at Lake Forest High School. For
most of that time, he was the head of the department, and he looked the
part. He wore tweed sport coats most of the year, in weather cold or
warm, and if I remember correctly, there were suede elbow patches on
these sport coats. He wore small wire-framed glasses, a thick mustache,
and his hair was dark, dusted with gray. He had a scholarly air because
that’s what he was, a scholar. His lessons, delivered from a seemingly
ancient wooden podium, were Socratic in nature, the students peppered
with questions, his expectations high, his mind open and wanting to be
surprised.
I took his course when I was a junior, and the first
book we read was “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” In those
first few weeks, he showed us a caricature of James Joyce from the New
York Review of Books. In it, Joyce’s hands were rendered large, cupped
and moving, as if paddling through water. Mr. Criche asked if anyone
knew why the artist had depicted Joyce that way, and I raised my hand.
“Is he swimming through a stream of consciousness?”
Mr.
Criche cocked his head a bit, confirmed the answer, and a wave of
validation swept over me. I hadn’t known, until that moment, how badly
I’d wanted his approval. I was going through some rough times at school
and at home — my face and back were covered in acne, my chest was
concave, my last name sounded like food — but in that class, I felt I
had worth. After that, I took it upon myself to impress him. Though
William Faulkner wasn’t assigned reading, for weeks I brought “As I Lay
Dying” to class, stacked neatly upon my other books, hoping he’d notice.
(He didn’t.)
He was kind to me, but I had no sense that he took particular notice of me. There were other, smarter kids in the class, and soon I fell back into my usual position — of thinking I was just a little over average in most things. But near the end of the semester, we read “Macbeth.” Believe me, this is not an easy play to connect to the lives of suburban high schoolers, but somehow he made the play seem electric, dangerous, relevant. After procrastinating till the night before it was due, I wrote a paper about the play — the first paper I typed on a typewriter — and turned it in the next day.
I got a good grade on it, and below the grade Mr. Criche wrote, “Sure hope you become a writer.” That was it. Just those six words, written in his signature handwriting — a bit shaky, but with a very steady baseline. It was the first time he or anyone had indicated in any way that writing was a career option for me. We’d never had any writers in our family line, and we didn’t know any writers personally, even distantly, so writing for a living didn’t seem something available to me. But then, just like that, it was as if he’d ripped off the ceiling and shown me the sky.
Over the next 10 years, I thought often about Mr. Criche’s six words. Whenever I felt discouraged, and this was often, it was those six words that came back to me and gave me strength. When a few instructors in college gently and not-so-gently tried to tell me I had no talent, I held Mr. Criche’s words before me like a shield. I didn’t care what anyone else thought. Mr. Criche, head of the whole damned English department at Lake Forest High, said I could be a writer. So I put my head down and trudged forward.
Mr. Criche was part of a powerhouse English department at Lake Forest High School, a school that, I believe, knew then and knows now how to treat its teachers. Nationwide, almost half of our teachers quit before their fifth year, driven away by poor conditions and low pay, but in Lake Forest, the teachers were and are able to make careers and lives out of the profession. Most of my other English teachers from 1984 to 1988 — Mr. Ferry, Mr. Hawkins, Ms. Pese, Mrs. Silber, Mrs. Lowey — taught there for decades, most of them in the same classrooms, all of them master educators. Imagine the benefit the students there received, from getting pretty much a college-level education in high school from educators who have honed their craft for decades. Every kid in this country deserves the same thing.
I don’t want to make this remembrance about the state of teachers in America, but Mr. Criche’s passing came just when teachers are at their most vulnerable, at a time when they’re fighting to assert and retain the dignity and artistry of their work. I don’t remember Mr. Criche teaching us how to take standardized tests, but when we took them, we did well. I don’t remember Mr. Criche gearing his lesson plans toward any state-regulated curricula, but we did pretty well on any and every scale. Why? Because he made us curious. He was curious, so we were curious. He was hungry for learning, so we were hungry, too. He made us want to impress him with the contents of our brains. He taught us how to think and why.
I miss him, but he won’t be forgotten, not by me or the scores of students who sat before him. Teachers live on in a thousand hearts and minds, right? They’re stuck with us. We follow them everywhere and always.
Geography
was the subject of Mrs. Oliver’s lesson on a rainy day in November at
Cherry Point School in 1948. As the rain poured down, and the radiators
along the wall beneath the tall windows steamed, she enthralled us with a
demonstration of how mountains formed. Her delicate hands slowly
crushed a sheet of paper. We imagined mountains rising and the earth
trembling.
She was a remarkable woman and an extraordinary teacher. We had the benefit of her instruction for two of our most formative years, 7th and 8th grades.
Mrs. Oliver was a woman of generous proportions, with short white hair and a chin that lay in folds about her neck. She was 53 when we walked into her classroom in Havelock.
She required us to practice penmanship. Standing at the board with her plain black dress stretched round her girth, she demonstrated the arm and hand movements needed to produce perfect letters. “Young people,” Mrs. Oliver said, “look at these handwriting samples from my Filipino students. Surely, you can write as well as they can.”
She did indeed teach in the Philippines during the 1920s, in a program that was the prototype for what would become the Peace Corps.
The genius of Mrs. Oliver’s educational method was her hands-on approach. Outside, we measured the area of the playground and solved math problems. We captured and categorized insects. Lima beans were planted in glass containers so we could observe them sprout.
We traveled to the Outer Banks and Mrs. Oliver led us to the top of the Wright Brothers’ Memorial. We went to the History, Science, and Art museums, and the State Legislature. I first saw television at the State Fair with my classmates.
We memorized and recited famous speeches. By putting heroic words in our mouths, she gave us confidence in our own worth.
Some of us challenged Mrs. Oliver’s patience and skill. However, what I remember best are all the afternoons she spent at the back of the room teaching Johnny Ray to read.
Mrs. Oliver taught more than academic subjects. She helped us plan softball games, Halloween carnivals, school assembly programs, and sock-hops. We soaked up high standards for work and behavior and enjoyed bountiful opportunities for convincing success.
At the end of 8th grade in the spring of 1950, Mrs. Oliver held a graduation ceremony for us, complete with speeches, bright red caps and gowns, and diplomas. She prepared all of us for life and was my role model for a career in public education in North Carolina.
He was kind to me, but I had no sense that he took particular notice of me. There were other, smarter kids in the class, and soon I fell back into my usual position — of thinking I was just a little over average in most things. But near the end of the semester, we read “Macbeth.” Believe me, this is not an easy play to connect to the lives of suburban high schoolers, but somehow he made the play seem electric, dangerous, relevant. After procrastinating till the night before it was due, I wrote a paper about the play — the first paper I typed on a typewriter — and turned it in the next day.
I got a good grade on it, and below the grade Mr. Criche wrote, “Sure hope you become a writer.” That was it. Just those six words, written in his signature handwriting — a bit shaky, but with a very steady baseline. It was the first time he or anyone had indicated in any way that writing was a career option for me. We’d never had any writers in our family line, and we didn’t know any writers personally, even distantly, so writing for a living didn’t seem something available to me. But then, just like that, it was as if he’d ripped off the ceiling and shown me the sky.
Over the next 10 years, I thought often about Mr. Criche’s six words. Whenever I felt discouraged, and this was often, it was those six words that came back to me and gave me strength. When a few instructors in college gently and not-so-gently tried to tell me I had no talent, I held Mr. Criche’s words before me like a shield. I didn’t care what anyone else thought. Mr. Criche, head of the whole damned English department at Lake Forest High, said I could be a writer. So I put my head down and trudged forward.
Mr. Criche was part of a powerhouse English department at Lake Forest High School, a school that, I believe, knew then and knows now how to treat its teachers. Nationwide, almost half of our teachers quit before their fifth year, driven away by poor conditions and low pay, but in Lake Forest, the teachers were and are able to make careers and lives out of the profession. Most of my other English teachers from 1984 to 1988 — Mr. Ferry, Mr. Hawkins, Ms. Pese, Mrs. Silber, Mrs. Lowey — taught there for decades, most of them in the same classrooms, all of them master educators. Imagine the benefit the students there received, from getting pretty much a college-level education in high school from educators who have honed their craft for decades. Every kid in this country deserves the same thing.
I don’t want to make this remembrance about the state of teachers in America, but Mr. Criche’s passing came just when teachers are at their most vulnerable, at a time when they’re fighting to assert and retain the dignity and artistry of their work. I don’t remember Mr. Criche teaching us how to take standardized tests, but when we took them, we did well. I don’t remember Mr. Criche gearing his lesson plans toward any state-regulated curricula, but we did pretty well on any and every scale. Why? Because he made us curious. He was curious, so we were curious. He was hungry for learning, so we were hungry, too. He made us want to impress him with the contents of our brains. He taught us how to think and why.
I miss him, but he won’t be forgotten, not by me or the scores of students who sat before him. Teachers live on in a thousand hearts and minds, right? They’re stuck with us. We follow them everywhere and always.
Most Inspiring Teacher Contest Winner
Mrs. Oliver
by Jacqueline Boykin, Williamston
Geography
was the subject of Mrs. Oliver’s lesson on a rainy day in November at
Cherry Point School in 1948. As the rain poured down, and the radiators
along the wall beneath the tall windows steamed, she enthralled us with a
demonstration of how mountains formed. Her delicate hands slowly
crushed a sheet of paper. We imagined mountains rising and the earth
trembling. She was a remarkable woman and an extraordinary teacher. We had the benefit of her instruction for two of our most formative years, 7th and 8th grades.
Mrs. Oliver was a woman of generous proportions, with short white hair and a chin that lay in folds about her neck. She was 53 when we walked into her classroom in Havelock.
She required us to practice penmanship. Standing at the board with her plain black dress stretched round her girth, she demonstrated the arm and hand movements needed to produce perfect letters. “Young people,” Mrs. Oliver said, “look at these handwriting samples from my Filipino students. Surely, you can write as well as they can.”
She did indeed teach in the Philippines during the 1920s, in a program that was the prototype for what would become the Peace Corps.
The genius of Mrs. Oliver’s educational method was her hands-on approach. Outside, we measured the area of the playground and solved math problems. We captured and categorized insects. Lima beans were planted in glass containers so we could observe them sprout.
We traveled to the Outer Banks and Mrs. Oliver led us to the top of the Wright Brothers’ Memorial. We went to the History, Science, and Art museums, and the State Legislature. I first saw television at the State Fair with my classmates.
We memorized and recited famous speeches. By putting heroic words in our mouths, she gave us confidence in our own worth.
Some of us challenged Mrs. Oliver’s patience and skill. However, what I remember best are all the afternoons she spent at the back of the room teaching Johnny Ray to read.
Mrs. Oliver taught more than academic subjects. She helped us plan softball games, Halloween carnivals, school assembly programs, and sock-hops. We soaked up high standards for work and behavior and enjoyed bountiful opportunities for convincing success.
At the end of 8th grade in the spring of 1950, Mrs. Oliver held a graduation ceremony for us, complete with speeches, bright red caps and gowns, and diplomas. She prepared all of us for life and was my role model for a career in public education in North Carolina.
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