To graduate or not to graduate...

...that is the question.

One day, a couple of weeks before high school graduation, my Senior English teacher called me back into her class after the bell rang. She looked me in the eye and told me quite bluntly:

"Mary, you are about to NOT graduate from high school."

I had begun my high school career with a high B average. Capable of more, I was never all that enthusiastic about homework, thus my semester grades would always be lowered by a few zeros in the grade books. With each year, there was more homework and more reading required and lower grades. I'm sure my teachers experienced much frustration with my performance because I eagerly joined in class discussion and almost always performed well on tests. Ask me to bring in homework, though, and you'd more than likely be left wanting.

My junior year we were required to write a term paper. Each step in the process, we were to have checked off by the teacher: note cards (check); outline (check); rough draft (check). One Friday, I sat in class with my note cards, outline and rough draft. My teacher was going to check off all three the same day. My comparison of Dick Diver from Tender is the Night and Jay Gatsby from The Great Gatsby was due the following Monday.

It was now or never.

Before Mrs. G. could place those three little check marks in her grade book, a voice came over the loud speaker announcing a bomb threat. We were to evacuate the room immediately and convene on the football field. We weren't supposed to take the time to gather our things, just get out of class.

NOW!

IT'S A BOMB THREAT!

I was hustling my little self out of there as quickly as possible when my teacher called out to me:

"Mary! Grab your work!"

Apparently there are some things worth risking life and limb and my term paper research was one of them! There was no bomb. The students of our school were quite safe and my term paper was turned in the following Monday.

The first semester of my senior year, I had a consumer math class. I believe these classes have been phased out, but I spent a semester learning how to balance a checkbook, file a tax return and amortize an entire 30 year mortgage. Of course, me being me, I didn't turn in my loan calculations. BORING! I was graced with an F+. F+? Is that even possible? The teacher, Mr. B., decided to give me that most unusual grade so that I could make up my work the next semester in night school. (Yes. That is how old I am. We had night school classes available for high school students. We had driver's ed, too.) All I had to do was complete the missing loan assignment and I would be done. So, for a few weeks--with much resentment in my less than rational teenage heart--I calculated the interest, added it to the principle, and subtracted the payment--over and over again--30 years worth.

So now, I found myself looking at Mrs. A. and at a loss for how to respond to her declaration: "Mary! You are about to NOT graduate from high school." To be honest, I don't remember everything that happened during that conversation. I have vague memories of stomach pain, rows of zeros in the grade book and some sort of understanding of what work I would need to complete in order to pass her class.

Cut to graduation day. I had managed to fulfill all my graduation requirements. The tradition at my high school was for all the graduates to walk to their seats with the teachers lined up on either side of them at the entrance to the stadium. As I passed Mrs. A., she grabbed my hand and shook it, exclaiming, "You did it!"

I credit Mrs. A. with throwing the metaphorical glass of cold water on my face, which I needed to wake up to my situation. She was an excellent teacher and I realize that she always saw my potential. She encouraged me to take the AP English exam, although I refused because I was angry I was being asked to take the test when they wouldn't allow me to register for the AP class. (My grades were not high enough.) Now, I can look back and appreciate that she thought I had a chance of passing the test even without the preparation I would have received in the class. Sadly, I think that kind of encouragement was so foreign to me; I didn't know what to do with it. I was trapped in my "Can't Do" attitude.

Today, I'd like to give a virtual toast to Mrs.A.--a teacher who cared. Thank you, from the bottom of my high school diploma-holding heart!