I love firsts. I get excited about firsts. On November 21, 2020, I had a first for which I hadn’t planned or prepared. To understand the significance of it, we have to go back about thirty-eight years to Richardson North Junior High School.

In 1982, the mere thought of junior high terrified me. I would’ve been content to remain at Canyon Creek Elementary for the rest of my school years. Everything about RNJH seemed intimidating, even menacing. I feared getting lost and being tardy. It wasn’t the threat of detention that scared me but the embarrassment of walking into class late because I was the only kid who couldn’t find her way or figure out the combination on her locker. The “freaks” scared the life out of me. The “jocks” and cheerleaders shined a spotlight on my insecurity. I was a skinny kid who’d neither blossomed nor grown into her face. Certain charming children called me spaghetti legs, bones or bug eyes. My goal for seventh grade was to finish it unnoticed.

The first day of seventh grade, I forced myself to walk into the school, and I successfully fought back the urge to vomit. Further exacerbating my anxiety was the fact that first period was English with Mrs. Gorman. With trepidation, I entered the classroom and learned she’d planted me on the front row. The morning before the second day of school, I stood on the walkway in front of my home, trying to hold back tears. I begged my mother to call the school and ask to change my schedule — any English teacher other than Mrs. Gorman, please! She wasn’t going to entertain that idea, and she provided enough encouragement for me to brave another day.

Fortunately, punctuality was a priority in my family, so I never struggled to be in classroom ten minutes before the bell, which Mrs. Gorman required. In seventh grade, I had no trouble with keeping my mouth shut, and I couldn’t imagine how anyone could not pay attention in her class. Indeed her reputation for eraser-throwing was a deterrent to daydreaming, but her zeal and unpredictability were enough to keep my attention. Throughout the fall semester, I secured my footing in her class, and ended the academic year with a strong A and everything I would ever know about grammar. When high school English teachers felt uncertain about a grammar rule, they would seek counsel from me or any other former student of Mrs. Gorman. In 10th grade, I remember the time a stoner, who slept through most classes, sacrificed his nap time to provide an explanation on comma usage. I had no doubt the guy had learned that from Mrs. Gorman!

Decades later, I noticed a Facebook group created in 2008 in Mrs. Gorman’s honor: Mrs. Gorman was my favorite teacher ever! I believe Alyssa Margrave Byrd deserves credit for making this group twelve years before our favorite teacher left this world. At the time of this blog, the group has 539 members, and they’re the reason I’m writing this. (I haven’t written a blog in years!) I’m writing to you 539 folks and anyone else who loved D. Ann Jones Gorman.

The Facebook group is a lively one in which former students share memories, engage in grammar checks, and commiserate the decline in society’s language and grammar skills. Discussions range from outrage over the idiotic decision to add irregardless to the dictionary to celebration that the past tense of to dive remains dived (it’s not dove, you silly people). I know we collectively cringe every time we hear someone refer to a person as being hung to death instead of hanged. (Look here: A photograph was hung on the wall. The murderous S.O.B. was hanged!) Even as I write this, I know members of this group are diagramming my sentences in their minds, and every keystroke is made with extreme care. When we learned of Mrs. Gorman’s passing, the Facebook group ramped up. Members of the Richardson community on Facebook did, as well.

A good friend and my daughter accompanied me to Bonham for the graveside service. We stood under a tree, maintaining a respectful distance from the family. I awaited the arrival of other former students. I envisioned a sea of them in attendance and predicted hundreds of us chanting helping verbs and conjunctions as a final tribute to her. My heart hurt when it became clear I would be the lone student representing thousands. There was no doubt in my mind that people cared. Timing was the obstacle. Our beloved teacher’s service was scheduled so quickly after the announcement of her death that it was impossible to plan to attend. So many of us needed to be there, and too many didn’t even hear the news of her death until after the service. Some still don’t know. I admit the apparent hurry frustrated me, and I wondered what the heck the planners were thinking. Sheer luck enabled me to shuffle my schedule and go. Once there, I realized her family, the ones who planned the service, had absolutely no idea how much she meant us.

Mrs. Gorman’s great nephew spoke first and he remembered her lovingly. His audience consisted of twenty-some people — all members of her family (and three strangers under a tree), which explained the brevity of his remarks. Then a preacher spoke for a bit. He acknowledged he’d never met D. Ann Jones Gorman. He mentioned her career in and passion for teaching. He said they’d found a few letters from her former students, so they knew she’d had an impact. That, and some scripture, was all he had to say.

I looked at my friend and whispered, “That’s not enough.” I tensed up in quiet desperation. I knew at least 539 of her former students were creating memes of diagrammed sentences, expressing grief, and posting archived news stories about everything from her travels to Europe to her wedding date announcement. Her loved ones needed to know this.

I’m fifty now and barely resemble the shrinking violet I was in 1982. I resisted the urge to barge in on the service, but I did circle behind the family within seconds of its end. I introduced myself and began a spontaneous eulogy. A few folks looked at me with suspicion until they grew close enough to hear what I was saying. I told them about the Facebook group, and their jaws dropped. I showed them the diagrammed sentences you created, like the one I made my cover photo. Her cousins, sister-in-law, great nephews and their spouses and children gathered in front of me, and they laughed and dabbed their tears; their energy told me they wanted to hear more, and I felt like a street preacher who’d caught the spirit.

I shared your memories of her standing on her desk and throwing erasers at anyone who dared to zone out. I chanted the helping verbs. I shared your memories of how she invested in every student, even those who didn’t care about school or conventional norms, adding that some of them might be in prison now, but they knew better than to split an infinitive. Many of you remembered her shutting the door and announcing, “Pop quiz! You have ten minutes to write 100 prepositions!” That memory tickled them. Her act of removing her jacket and blouse to reveal a t-shirt covered in prepositions evoked laughter, too. I told them of conversations to petition for a renaming of RNJH in her memory. They were stunned to hear this.

It makes sense that they didn’t know. What I’ve learned in that Facebook group is that she seemed to live a private life and had no interest in receiving recognition. Her family, however, now has a better understanding of her legacy. Sharing our memories of her was so much fun. How I wish you had been there! I wasn’t asked to honor her memory, but what a great honor it was to do it.

For those who wish to visit her grave, she’s buried in Arledge Ridge Cemetery.

Consider this scenario: Your son was exposed to a toxin about three weeks ago. Ever since then, you’ve noticed he lacks energy and is behaving a little differently. At first, it’s nothing remarkable or worrisome. He seems lethargic, but he has been having trouble sleeping, so that makes sense. He doesn’t have an interest in doing things he normally enjoys, but maybe his interests have simply changed. This isn’t unusual with teens, right? Then he starts getting headaches, which are soon accompanied by stomach pain, even diarrhea. (Of course, he won’t tell you about the bathroom stuff, but you have ears and your Spidey-Senses.) The head and stomach aches occur every three to four days. You worry he’ll get dehydrated, but he acts annoyed with you when you encourage him to drink more fluids.

Then you learn that a few of his friends were also exposed to the same toxin, and they’re showing similar symptoms. What do you do?  Continue reading “Parents: Leave Your Egos at the Door” →