Big eyes stare at me from the attic trunk. For more than sixty years now, ever since I painted them in first grade, these eyes have watched from behind their glasses. The eyes belong to Alvina, my first teacher. And I painted them in her classroom at Yoder School.
In my portrait, Alvina is a force—all-seeing eyes, a mouth at the ready, and capable arms. Her eyes don’t miss a daydreaming student or the slump of shoulders when work is too hard. Her mouth can tell a line-cutting kid a thing or two. But it also makes stories live when she reads aloud, stories from books and stories we write. Her arms build a grocery store for us in the corner of the classroom and lift newly-hatched monarchs into the sky so they can find freedom.
At age seven, do I already have a growing inkling that Alvina will become the polestar me? For decades, she guided me as I explored new ideas and methods for teaching.
What would Alvina do? I asked this question hundreds of times as I taught middle schoolers and inmates and gifted students. The answers to this question often helped me assess, problem-solve, design and modify my practice.
I smooth the faded painting on its now brittle, yellowed easel paper. My first-grade portrait of Alvina takes up the whole page, much like she filled my teaching life. But I’m retired now, and Alvina has died. In some ways, it’s over—the story of Alvina and how she taught me to teach.
But as I close the attic trunk, I have a thought. When Alvina retired, her story lived on in the next generation of teachers. And those teachers have tried pass it on to their students. It’s a strong story, strong enough to last another generation.
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Read more about Alvina in my book Yoder School.
Apple to Apple 