The latest educational statistics Pew Research reported seem somewhat grim. While there has been some improvement in children’s scores, the United States’ education system ranks notoriously mediocre compared to other advanced, industrial countries. While opinions and remedies for our education system abound, and certainly our government, parents, teachers, and students all bear responsibility, there is something to be said for teachers who err on the side of toughness, especially in the later grade years, rather than yielding. I can attest to this as many other people probably can too — without such teachers in my life, I may not have discovered work I truly enjoy.
Through elementary and high school, I attended a small private school which employed several of the same teachers to teach the same general subject, at different levels, for more than one year. When our school hired “Mrs. J.,” she came across as strict, stale, and (sorry Mrs. J!) a prude. She taught English and journalism, specifically for the school newspaper. I entered her class with dread. She was a stickler for adhering to grammar rules and required the best of every student. My papers that first year were stained with red pen.
The following year either she relaxed or we grew accustomed to her (somewhere in between I suspect) and I began to appreciate her disciplined style. I started to dread her classes less, appreciate her personality more, and improve due to her sure direction and insistence that every single sentence remain as grammatically-correct as possible. Somehow, I got roped into writing for the school newspaper and it was in this environment that Mrs. J’s reputation as a “Grammar Nazi” and my opinions began to intertwine to create good work. I started writing reported pieces and the op-ed page — my first ever op-ed was hard-hitting journalism about the provocative catalogues Abercrombie & Fitch produced. Lest we doubt her rigorous reputation, when we received her red pen edits, we had to staple it to our newest draft. This system would continue until the draft was at least two inches thick, her purist expectations were met, and I felt suitably exasperated.
When I graduated high school, I felt genuinely appreciative of her guidance. I still didn’t love composition, though I excelled in it — little did I know how her rigorous adherence to grammar rules would affect my future. As a part-time journalist now, there isn’t a piece I write during which I don’t hear her voice in my head.
After high school I attended a small private liberal arts college with my eyes set on one goal: Law school. I’d already interned at a law office and been told by attorneys to major in English because that degree would force me to read and write, which they thought was actually more beneficial than pre-law. This was different from most of my English major peers, who were there because they loved literature. Most wanted to write or pursue teaching English later.
I acted pretentious about all this, assuming my goal, law school, was somehow more noble. My advisor, “Dr. W.,” did not let this unnerve her. She saw right through my insecurities and immediately realized she’d have a lot to teach me in only a short time if she were to do her job to to the best of her ability.
For the next two years (I graduated in three years), Dr. W. endured my attitude. I didn’t like reading and analyzing one novel per week. Because I declared my major late and wanted to graduate early, I had to catch up to my peers who were already familiar with literary analysis and the beginnings of a senior thesis. From the get-go, she communicated that I had much to learn to live up to her standards and pass any of her classes, let alone graduate college with a bachelor’s degree in English.
She preferred firm direction to sentiment — I once fought off tears in her office, which she noticed but acted incredulous about, as she should have. By my senior year, somewhere between Mark Twain’s Mysterious Stranger and weekly visits to Dr. W.’s office to vent, her tough critiques and steady guidance pushed me to graduate early, cum laude, with a double minor.
Toward the end of my college experience and while employed at my first post-college job, I met and became good friends with “P” — not technically a teacher, but he was in the true sense of the word. He first introduced me to what would be a work I truly love. It had become clear law school wasn’t the right path for me; I longed for something more creative but lacked the skills, experience, and peers to make that happen. I knew very few journalists, authors, or writers, save for P.
During my free time, however, I’d write an essay and send it to him. He’d write back, or I’d pop over to his office, to hear his fair, brutally honest critiques. It took me weeks to craft my first published op-ed in a major paper, the Rocky Mountain News, thanks to his excruciating line-by-line direction. P was kind but unafraid to tell me where I missed the mark and needed to improve. When I wanted to stop pitching because editors kept ignoring my pitches, he told me to pitch again. When I wanted to reconsider freelancing because my work was only getting published sporadically, he told me to write for free if I had to and press on with my calling, regardless.
I listened. Ten years later, I have been able to interview influential people, evaluate public policy, and earn a journalism award. Most importantly, I get to do something that still allows me to participate in the public sphere and raise my kids full-time. Without P’s constant encouragement, careful editing, and cheerful perspective, I may not have continued doing what I love.
Dear teachers: This year, whether you’re public, private, or home-schooling, don’t be afraid to be tough, firm, disciplined — and yet kind, engaging, and caring. It just might help a child find a path that sets them toward the work they love.
Nicole Russell is a contributor to the Washington Examiner’s Beltway Confidential blog. She is a journalist in Washington, D.C., who previously worked in Republican politics in Minnesota. She was the 2010 recipient of the American Spectator’s Young Journalist Award.
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