The Pink Clock

School is starting and this story has been on my heart for sometime. As I watched children in the school supply isle this weekend I felt now is the time to share. Being in education for 25 years, twelve as a principal, I saw daily the difference teachers make in the lives of children. I’m writing this to tell my story but mostly hoping current teachers will read, reflect, and understand the power they have in lives of those they teach. Your words matter and will move your students forward or cause them to quit.

I loved school growing up. I loved the feel of my new, red, Big Chief tablet and the smell of my real cigar box purchased from the downtown dime store. To me school was exciting and I loved to make friends and talk. My parents raised me to value school, learn everything I could, respect my teachers, keep my mouth shut (I had a problem with this one), and never cause them to receive a call from a teacher or a principal. I was taught my behavior, or lack of, was a reflection on them and I had been taught proper discipline at home. All the above were non-negotiables.

1st Grade was when I entered the world of public education – September 1964. In the “old days” we didn’t have Meet the Teacher night. We all arrived early the first morning – which was Tuesday after Labor Day – to view a handwritten list of names taped to the teacher’s doors. That’s how you discovered your new teacher for the year.

I couldn’t have been more excited – I was in Mrs. Ruby Milam’s class. I had so hoped to get her. She taught both my parents and they had great memories of being in her class. The desks were all in rows, but hers were not front to back. Her rows were long – left to right – and there were only two rows. That gave me a lot of options to find someone to talk to, but that’s another story.

The dress I wore the first day was plaid and had a white collar. I had a black velvet bow in my hair. These details are still fresh in my memory as is the fact that my assigned seat was on the first row, right in the middle. I reflect as a former teacher, and that spot is one of the places I would put a student who might have talking tendencies.

Mrs. Milam was tiny, not quite 5 ft. tall with solid gray hair and the sweetest voice – unless you didn’t listen. Rulers were used during “those days” to get our attention if we were talking and not listening, and Mrs. Milam wasn’t afraid to use her ruler.

As the year progressed I remember how smart she made me feel. I learned to read really well and really fast. She found books to keep me interested. But what I remember most is how smart she made me feel in MATH. I was a “whiz” she would call me. After I had completed all the skills I needed for 1st grade Math she took me and two more students, to an area away from the other students. She brought with her three, small, pink, paper clocks with brown hands. She told us we were ahead of the others and she wanted to go ahead and begin working with us on telling time. I can still remember that feeling. I’m smart in MATH. My Dad was really great at Math and I couldn’t wait to tell him.

I got to take the clock home with me and practice and I did – every night. I learned how to tell time in record time! Mrs. Milam would talk to me about my parents and share how smart they were and how much she enjoyed teaching them. I remember taking her roses from our rose bushes when they would bloom. She always kept them on her desk. 1st grade could not have been any better!

As the elementary years progressed I had other good teachers but none as good as Mrs. Milam – until 5th Grade. I was blessed to get to be in Mrs. Medlin’s class. Another sweet lady who had taught my parents. She worked us hard but was a master at providing us praise. If you were in Mrs. Medlin’s class you knew you were smart and left each day feeling good about yourself. I continued to be a whiz in Math.

Then in 7th grade my educational world dissolved. I entered believing I was smart at MATH. For six years I’d been extremely successful at every level. I will not share the teacher’s name for professional reasons, but she is the reason I failed at math from that year forward.

This was during the time what was called “New Math” hit the scene. All the parents and teachers were nervous about how to introduce it, should it be taught this early, what would be taught next and in a small town Math teachers weren’t knocking down doors to teach. The material was introduced and it was the most confusing stuff I’d ever looked at. I didn’t understand anything in the book, anything she wrote on the board, nor anything that she tried to explain. But, I did remember I had a very smart Dad at home who was great at Math. He was running a lumber yard working with contractors to build houses. Numbers were his gift and I had the perfect resource to help me get “smart” again.

I took my book and homework home and sat down with Dad. I can remember the frustration on his face. He shared that he saw what they were doing but he didn’t understand why they would use such a confusing way to get the answer. He showed me how he would get the answer and it was like a light bulb turned on. His way made sense. I was so relieved and skipped into the classroom the next day and couldn’t wait to volunteer to work a problem on the board.

Well you can guess what happened. When I placed the problem on the board she laughed out loud, threw her hands in the air, and asked me how I came up with such a ridiculous way to reach the answer – which by the way was the correct answer. I proudly shared my Dad worked with me the previous night, and while I didn’t understand what we had been doing in class, his methods all made sense. I was so excited. And she responded to me:

“The person who helped you quit school in 10th grade. He had a drunk for a father. Your father never graduated from high school, and by the way your mother didn’t either. You will be lucky if we get you out of high school now sit down.” I quit Math that day. I never listened to another word she had to say nor did I ever learn “New Math.”

I was 12 in 7th grade and knew some of my parent’s struggles. I knew they were born in poverty and so was I. I knew that poverty kept them from finishing school, that Dad had to go to work to provide for nine siblings, as he was the oldest boy. I also know that Dad had broken the cycle and worked his way out of poverty to ensure we as a family would not be a statistic. I later discovered Mrs. Milam and Mrs. Medlin both knew my parent’s history and helped make certain they were successful. These two sweet ladies saw something in me and I’m guessing the same thing they saw in my parents. They knew our STORY.

I never recovered, even to this day, from the remarks made by that 7th grade teacher and I never told Dad nor Mom what she said.   My Dad continued a successful career in business and my mother achieved her GED as well as her teaching degree from TWU. They both had the ability they just weren’t provided the availability.  Both were just as “smart” as other classmates; however, they were their only advocates.  That and intuitive teachers like Mrs. Milam.

Because my parents were not high school graduates my high school teachers never spoke to me about college – not even my high school counselor. He would pull students into his office and they would come back with college literature and plans for college tours but never one time was it mentioned to me.  I scheduled my own college tour and navigated through the paperwork the best I could.

In spite of what I consider educational neglect, I was born with an intrinsic desire to succeed. That paired with parents who daily built me up, brainwashed me on the importance of an education, held me accountable, and allowed me to draft my own path. I consider my teaching and leadership careers to be exceptionally successful.  From my first day until my final day in 2017 my focus was making certain every student knew they mattered.  I didn’t disappoint Mrs. Ruby Milam, who knew Linda Raylene would someday make a difference in others.

I tried to focus on learning the story of every student – they all have them.  Sometimes they don’ know how to share their story and it is the teacher and principal’s job to do the research.  Listen to what they say, what they do, how they smile or don’t.  Look into their eyes.  Do their eyes sparkle or do they try to be invisible in your classroom.

Please teachers learn the stories of your student’s. Know where they came from, what they have and don’t have, build them up, make them feel “smart.” What you do daily can accelerate or deflate a child – and it doesn’t matter the age. School is hard and the demands of life even harder. Make a promise to Everyday be someone’s Pink Clock.