Before my sophomore year of high school I wasn't interested in my classes as much as the social scene. Going to school was a segmented way of hanging out with friends, not an integral part of my development worth concentration. I thought that there was nothing wrong with it. Since I wasn't the only one not paying attention, I thought I was justified. My enmity let my once strong grades slip and my respect for my teachers as well. School and learning became a question of my own personal preference in girls instead of US government. Each day I was becoming more and more acclimated to a life without direction and I had no care about it. My distrust of teachers had grown into outright adolescent prejudice and I wasn't paying attention to anything that they had to say.

With this in mind I began another year in high school, happy to see old friends not to see new assignments. I went through the first week without a care for new syllabuses and textbooks. Though I feigned disdain, I found that there was supposed to be an unusually heavy load in my American Literature class. I would not care what would take place, I asserted, but the more work expected meant all the more I would be hounded. The teacher of my American Literature class was Mrs. H. and she was a veteran of Okemos High School. With a few inquisitions here and there I found out that she was a notoriously tough test giver and paper grader. She was a very directed woman who, in a striking resemblance, appeared with the same professionalism my mother had shown at work yet the same warmth she showed me at home. Somewhere inside my impermeable adolescent body I began to feel very vulnerable.

Through the next few weeks I met most deadlines with excuses and disregard, and a surprisingly high level of criticism from my teacher. Most teachers scolded me for not living up to potential, but this was different. As I walked up to her desk empty handed she met me with a look that I could only describe as pure contempt and deep motherly disappointment. It became apparent that she wasn't going to accept excuses and my hand was trapped in the cookie jar till I did live up to my potential. Suddenly, I began to fear going to American Literature with Mrs. H. She was even wiping away my social credibility by calling on me every class and exposing my ignorance to the material. Early on I could pass as cool and collected but as the class progressed I became stupid and a loser. Frighteningly enough, I began to read the Crucible, The Scarlet Letter, and Walden Pond. Not one to be outdone I often pretended to forget the answer and then would blurt out and in-depth analysis just before she turned to another student. Chuckling to myself, I suddenly noticed that she had a smirk too.

Two years later I was sitting in packed church with all of my classmates, all wearing cap and gown. As Pomp and Circumstance echoed through the somber hall, valedictorians and class officers reminisced our swift adolescence. More in tune with how uncomfortable my robe was and the floral pattern of the carpet, I thought of my free time to come. But suddenly the sound of a voice from the past snapped up my attention yet again. Looking up to the podium I saw the much weaker but still commanding presence of Mrs. H. Unfortunately, a month after my emergence in American Literature Mrs. H. had become very ill. She had eventually recovered but her teaching days were over. With this in mind I watched as Mrs. H. gave off a glow that lit every inch of the huge church hall. The once restless crowd of graduates now sat on pins and needles. Her speech told more of our development and understanding than we could have ever figured out on our own.

Graduates to surrogate sons and daughters, all of us looked to the podium with renewed confidence in our lives and accomplishments. As she concluded with tears streaming from her cheeks, I was shocked by an eternity-in-an-instant of eye contact with my teacher. Standing to my feet, slightly in front of the ovation to follow, I knew that she was responsible for my ability to truly stand with my friends. Though I am still partial to stubbornness, now it gets me good grades and not incompletes. I cannot thank Mrs. H. enough for scaring me so much that I was inspired. She will live long in my memory, and undoubtedly the memories of the students I may have one day. Here’s to Mrs. H., the inspiration for an entire generation to come.