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Monday, January 1, 2024
My Eighth Grade Science Teacher
Photo by Adrian Dascal on Unsplash
I still remember how the classroom smelled
on that first day of eighth grade - pungent chemicals poorly concealed by must and mould, relics of
science lessons past. It reminded me of boarding my flight to come live with my
dad: equal parts anxious and expectant, lost and found.
I took a desk in the back row next to my
friend Max. Neither of us knew what to expect from high school-level science,
but Max was eyeing the chemicals, hopefully, no doubt thinking of a possible
practical joke, while I was watching the teacher.
Her name was Ms. Sarah Jenkins, and she
entered the classroom with an energy I'd never seen in a teacher, carrying
stacks of textbooks and equipment that wobbled dangerously.
"Let me get the lights!" she
said, dropping everything in an unceremonious heap on the cluttered desk at the
front.
When she flipped the light switch, nothing
happened. She examined the bulb overhead sceptically, like it had betrayed her
by not illuminating on command. Finding no easy fix, she shrugged and said,
"Well, I guess we'll make do!"
And we did. Over the following weeks and
months, I came to know Ms. Jenkins not just as my science teacher but as a
mentor and friend. While the guys snickered at her enthusiasm, I found it
refreshing - she brought life to the
decaying classroom with innovative labs and an infectious passion for science.
She'd make jokes on dissection days to put the squeamish at ease.
---
When our supplies ran short, she'd dig in
her purse for extras procured from who knows where. And she always fielded
every question with equal parts patience and excitement.
While the sun streamed brightly through
clean windows elsewhere in the school, we worked under the pallid glow of
crackling fluorescent bulbs. While other classrooms stayed toasty on even the
coldest winter days, icy drafts blew steadily through broken panes in our
classroom.
My cheeks stung from the cold as Ms.
Jenkins taught, her breath visible as she gestured broadly. If she was bothered
by the conditions, it never showed. Rain or shine, cold or hot, Ms. Jenkins was
always perfectly composed, with nary a hair out of place.
---
When the school year ended, I was surprised
to feel…deprived. Science with Ms Jenkins was the highlight of my day. As I
handed in my final exam, she squeezed my arm and said, "I know you'll do
great things, Grace. Don't lose that creative spirit." Her eyes twinkled
with what I imagined was pride, and I felt my cheeks grow warm despite the
draft.
That spring, news came that our school
would be closing. The old building had finally been condemned, with claims that
it was cheaper to shutter its doors than bring it up to code. I worried about
what would become of Ms. Jenkins until I ran into her at the mall bookstore
that summer.
She looked radiant amidst the bookshelves - utterly in her element. "I'll be teaching
at Orchard Hill next year," she said. Though it was a long commute, she
assured me her passion for teaching could weather any storm, literal or
figurative.
I didn't doubt that for a second. Over that
year together, Ms. Jenkins taught me much more than the periodic table or the
delicate dissection process. With her endless positivity and warmth that not
even neglect and decay could dim, she taught me resilience. She taught me to
nurture creativity wherever it sprouts, to tend it patiently through trials and
setbacks toward the sunlight of achievement.
---
Over the years, I've pictured Ms Jenkins
weathering blizzards and hurricanes on her morning commute, smiling through
snowdrifts and floods.
And now, as I wrap up this PhD in biochemical engineering that she set me on the path toward, I hope she knows that her light still shines through me, through all of us whose lives she touched with her passion that first eccentric, cold, perfect year of science.
First published in Medium. Click here for the original post.
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