I woke up that morning with a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat. It was my first day of sixth grade at Halsted Street Middle School. This day hallmarked the beginning of three long years with Mr. Griffitts as my home room teacher. I had heard the rumors. He was grumpy. He was grouchy. He hated children. He was one of those teachers who had always been old. I was terrified.
Sitting in his classroom that morning, I began to realize that the rumors about Mr. Griffitts had been grossly exaggerated. While he spoke with a snarl and wore a scowl on his face, I could tell that he indeed was a caring and understanding man. The ferocious façade was just his unique sense of humor and style. He spoke of our home room projects. We would record interviews with each other in 6th grade; then at 8th grade graduation, we would listen to these tapes. We would attend a three day long peer leadership camp in 7th grade. He promised that we would grow and learn a lot with him during our next three years. All of his promises came true.
When Mr. Griffitts looked at his homeroom class of tentative, scared, and uncertain sixth graders, he saw the young men and women that we would blossom into during the next three years. He could even see beyond that. He saw the world traveler, the teacher, the graphic designer, the saleswoman ?the people we would be in ten years. He saw our potential. He asked about our dreams. Throughout the next three school years, he would push us to pursue these dreams. It became obvious that it was his dream to help each individual in his homeroom reach his or her full potential.
Timid as I was on the first day of my homeroom class with Mr. Griffitts, I eagerly began his 8th grade advanced English class. Being that Mr. Griffitts was a stickler on grammar, we spent hours diagramming sentences and doing grammar exercises. However, much more importantly, we wrote. We wrote creatively. We wrote persuasively. We wrote comedy. We wrote drama. We wrote to think, to feel, to laugh, to cry.
It was not easy. We spent hours thinking, hour writing, hours editing. It was all worth it, however, on the days that the assignments were finally due. On those days, we would read our work to our classmates. I learned so much about writing, about speaking, about presenting, and about life during those presentations. I honestly believe that most of my writing skills and many of my life lessons have come from that 8th grade English class.
Mr. Griffitts played a key role in my formative years. He helped me blossom from an awkward sixth grader into a woman. He helped me develop from an eighth-grade English student into a writer. I feel honored and extremely grateful to have spent that time in his homeroom and English class. For some reason, thinking about Mr. Griffitts ties a knot in my stomach and brings a lump to my throat. As I contemplate teaching as a potential career, I thank Mr. Griffitts for pushing me, teaching me, and inspiring me. I can only hope to be as inspirational to others has he has been to me. Thank You, Mr. Griffitts!
-- Kathryn Oakley, American University