Mrs. Robinson

Mrs. Jean Robinson was my English Literature teacher.

How much she loved English, and teaching it, lived in her face. It lived behind her spectacles, in those wonderfully expressive red cheeks, in the way a sentence could animate her entire person. She was from the United Kingdom, and by the time I landed in her classroom she was probably in her late fifties or early sixties. She carried years of reading with her, along with a genuine love for teaching and for the students sitting in front of her.

I loved her from day one.

Her class was unlike any other. I think she enjoyed having me there because I gave her plenty to work with.

I was brash, confident, fast with language, passionate about words, romance, performance, and anything that allowed English to become more than an assignment. Mrs. Robinson recognized that immediately.

She also recognized that confidence and discipline had not yet formed a permanent alliance inside me.

That part took work.

Mrs. Robinson would give us a week, sometimes two, to complete a writing assignment. A responsible student could think about the subject, make notes, write a draft, revise it, clean it up, and arrive prepared.

I preferred another system.

I would walk into class on the day the assignment was due, sit down, and write it with a few minutes to spare.

Done.

I thought this demonstrated brilliance.

Mrs. Robinson knew exactly what it demonstrated.

She knew I could write.

She also knew I was playing with the gift.

One assignment became legendary in my mind.

She asked us to find a poem we liked and study it carefully. We were supposed to know the poem, know the writer, understand what we believed the poem meant, and come prepared to discuss all of it in class.

The instructions were perfectly clear.

Naturally, I decided to write the poem myself.

I wrote about a seashore, a starfish, and a magnificent day. Then I invented the poet who supposedly wrote it.

The assignment required a writer.

I supplied one.

The day of the discussion arrived.

Students began sharing their poems, talking about the poets, explaining meanings, examining emotions, discussing what they thought the writers intended.

Then came mine.

I sat there listening to people talk about my poem.

They talked about the writer, the imagery, the feelings behind it. They found meaning. They found intention. They found a person who did not exist.

I was enthralled.

Words I had written were moving through the room, gathering interpretations I had never supplied. People were giving the poem a life beyond the page.

How could I not relish that?

Mrs. Robinson sat there watching, listening, knowing.

When class ended, she asked me to stay.

The room emptied.

Then she asked me to turn off the lights.

It was a cool, rainy Fremont fall day. I did what she asked, and the two of us sat together in the quiet classroom.

Mrs. Robinson knew.

Of course she knew.

This woman had spent a lifetime reading.

I had spent a few years trying to impress people.

She knew literature. She knew writers. She knew voice.

She also knew me.

There was no dramatic prosecution. No humiliation. No attempt to embarrass me in front of the class.

There was giggling.

There was laughter.

She hit me with a few gotchas, and that wonderfully expressive face told me she had enjoyed catching me almost as much as I had enjoyed trying to get away with it.

Then she told me, gently and clearly, that I needed to give her and the class more respect.

She knew the work was mine.

She knew I had invented the writer.

Then she gave me the part that stayed.

I could have written something better if I had not been so concerned with showing off.

There it was.

She did not object to imagination.

She did not seem terribly offended by the mischief.

She objected strenuously to wasted ability.

I had spent too much energy proving I could fool the room and too little energy seeing what I could actually create.

That was Mrs. Robinson.

She enjoyed my edge. She celebrated my confidence. She loved that I … loved words.

Then she demanded that I respect the work enough to become great.

She often said, “If you’re going to plagiarize, do the writer the courtesy of quoting them.”

That line stayed with me.

Words were paramount.

Behind her desk hung a poster of Einstein. I’d read it enough times that one line settled permanently into memory:

“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.”

The rest spoke about refusing to bow blindly to conventional prejudice and having the courage to express what you believed honestly.

Those words belonged in Mrs. Robinson’s classroom.

She respected writers, thought and courage.

And she expected you to do something worthwhile with all three.

I figured out too late how deeply read she was.

I wish I had understood sooner.

I would have asked more questions. I would have listened differently. I would have wanted to know what she loved when she was young, which writers first caught her, which books changed her, which sentences stayed in her head for thirty years.

I had access to a woman who had spent a life loving language, and I was still young enough to believe I had plenty of time.

I didn’t understand yet how quickly teachers become memories.

Mrs. Robinson helped deepen my love for Shakespeare.

I had already memorized one of the sonnets years earlier for another assignment, so Shakespeare was already somewhere inside me. Mrs. Robinson brought that love forward.

She loved that I lived for wordsmithing.

The passion.

The romance.

A command of English.

I loved speaking the language in character, full UK accent, entering the scene completely because reading Shakespeare quietly never felt sufficient to me.

Words needed breath.

They needed voice.

They needed presence.

Mrs. Robinson could see how much I loved it, and she could see how much I appreciated learning from her.

Even when she chewed me good.

Maybe … especially then.

There were smaller moments too, and those may be the ones I treasure most.

One day I walked into class early and caught her between sips from a cup.

I asked what kind of coffee she was drinking.

I was fully prepared to engage her on the subject because, in my world, the coffee question had already been settled.

Folgers or bust.

Why would any reasonable teacher drink anything else?

Mrs. Robinson answered without ceremony.

“Not coffee. Tea. Americans drink coffee. I drink tea.”

Matter settled.

The Empire had spoken.

Another day I arrived carrying a giant red apple.

I had seen students give teachers apples on television countless times. Apparently this was something fine students did for favorite teachers, and Mrs. Robinson was certainly one of mine.

I gave it to her.

She thanked me sincerely for thinking of her, then suggested I would be better served giving it to a teacher who actually liked apples.

That was Mrs. Robinson too.

Warm. Direct. Grateful. Entirely herself.

I could see the impishness bound up inside her.

She had it.

I knew she had it.

Maybe that was part of what drew me to her. I recognized something familiar underneath all that literary authority.

She could enjoy the game.

She simply expected the game to be played well.

Mrs. Robinson also spoke about my writing to other teachers.

She read things I had written to faculty.

That still touches me.

I had faculty who became fans of my work. Mrs. Robinson. Ms. Coelho. Mr. Bush. Mr. Griffin. Ms. Edie Quinby. Others.

Mrs. Robinson helped that work travel.

She knew about my reputation as a modern day Cyrano too.

Students came to me when they needed words for romance. A poem. Something they wanted to say but could not quite get onto the page.

Mrs. Robinson sent students my way.

Think about that.

The English teacher knew exactly what I was doing and helped send business to the kid writing romance for other kids.

There was humor in it.

For me, it was money and respect.

For her, the work stood on its own.

Parent teacher conferences became something I looked forward to.

That was a first.

I loved hearing Mrs. Robinson talk with Mama about my abilities as a writer. I loved hearing her say how much she enjoyed having me in class.

She did that.

Those conversations stretched my ego for miles.

A boy can believe he is talented.

His Scottish Mama can believe it.

Something different happens when a teacher you deeply admire sits with your Mom and says she sees it too.

Yeah, Mrs. Robinson saw it.

There is another memory of her that has stayed with me for entirely different reasons.

I saw her one day walking near the baseball diamonds on campus.

I remember what she was wearing.

Black slacks.

A green cable knit sweater over a black and white blouse.

The East Bay sun was out. The wind moved through the campus.

I went over to say hi.

She smiled cordially, then quickly let me know that she was walking because she needed to think. She wished me well and asked me to please leave her alone to walk and think.

So I did.

I watched her continue.

Fifteen steps.

Maybe twenty.

Then she stopped.

I saw her wipe tears from her eyes.

I never knew why.

I still do not.

I never saw her that heavy before.

I remember standing there, watching this woman I knew through literature, laughter, correction, enthusiasm, and teaching carry something I had no access to.

She had asked for solitude.

I respected it.

The moment ended there.

The memory never did.

Years later, I sat in a theater watching Dead Poets Society.

Robin Williams played John Keating, the English teacher who made poetry breathe, who made literature personal, who saw possibility in young men and demanded that they look more closely at words, at themselves, at life.

I knew that teacher.

Mine had red cheeks and spectacles.

Mine drank tea because Americans drank coffee.

Mine refused my apple because she did not care for apples.

Mine caught me inventing a poet, turned the classroom lights off, sat with me privately, laughed, and told me I was capable of much greater.

Mine loved Shakespeare.

Mine kept Einstein behind her desk.

Mine read my work to faculty.

Mine told my Mama I could write.

Mine could see straight through my showing off and find the ability underneath it.

Mrs. Jean Robinson was my Mr. Keating.

At sixteen, I knew I loved her class.

I knew I loved hearing her talk about literature.

I knew I loved making her laugh.

I knew I wanted her approval.

What I understood much later in life was that I wanted something else too.

Her conversation.

I used to wonder what spending time with Mrs. Robinson outside the classroom might have been like once I was older.

A pot of great tea.

Stories.

Poetry.

Favorite scenes from movies.

Taking turns talking.

Maybe exchanging favorite poems we knew we had actually written ourselves.

Laughing.

Sharing something sincere.

I wanted to know the woman behind the spectacles.

I wanted more time.

That may be one of the deepest truths about the people who shape us.

Eventually, the grade disappears.

The assignment takes its place in history.

The classroom fades into memory.

What remains is the person.

Mrs. Robinson loved English. She loved literature. She loved the classics. She loved teaching. She loved students.

And for one important season of my life, she loved the writer forming inside me enough to enjoy him, challenge him, praise him, correct him, and expect more from him.

I have carried her in my heart ever since.

There are teachers who help you pass a class.

There are teachers who help you understand a subject.

And every once in a great while, God puts someone in your path who helps you recognize part of yourself.

Mrs. Jean Robinson did that for me.

I only wish I had another minute with her.