By Barbara LoMonaco
What a teacher writes on the blackboard of life can never be erased.
~Author Unknown
It was the start of another summer session at the university. I was enrolled in a psychology class -- the lecture part and the laboratory. I was majoring in both education and psychology and since this particular class involved techniques for teaching children with learning disorders it would help me greatly. The class was very popular and the lab was one-of-a-kind. Therefore the class was extremely difficult to get into. Lots of students were put on a waiting list but I was lucky. I got my spot in the class -- both lecture and lab -- on my first try.
What a teacher writes on the blackboard of life can never be erased.
~Author Unknown
It was the start of another summer session at the university. I was enrolled in a psychology class -- the lecture part and the laboratory. I was majoring in both education and psychology and since this particular class involved techniques for teaching children with learning disorders it would help me greatly. The class was very popular and the lab was one-of-a-kind. Therefore the class was extremely difficult to get into. Lots of students were put on a waiting list but I was lucky. I got my spot in the class -- both lecture and lab -- on my first try.
I had enrolled in this class not only because of the subject matter but also because of the professor. I had heard wonderful things about her. Learning disorders were her specialty and her techniques and teaching methods were known across the United States. She traveled around the country lecturing; she had published many articles and books, including an entire series of classroom books used by children with learning disorders. Those books had been translated into many languages and were used around the world. She ran a full-time school on the university campus that enrolled elementary age children who had trouble learning. It would be an honor to learn from her. And I had a secret.
Today was the first day of class. I was excited. The professor entered the crowded lecture hall and made her way to the front of the room. I had taken a seat about halfway back and a little over to one side. Because of the stadium-style seating in the lecture hall, I had a perfect view of her. The professor faced us, looked around, and the room quieted. It was time to start. Could she see me? I didn't know. She smiled. She was my mother.
When I was growing up, my mother and I had a great relationship -- most of the time. I felt that I could talk to her about anything. She didn't judge me and didn't get angry. I don't mean to imply that she let me do anything I wanted. Far from it! I was an only child and she was very overprotective but she was also fair and she listened. If I disagreed with her I'd let her know how I felt -- that is, after I got over being mad! Sometimes she would change her mind based on what I had to say. And sometimes she wouldn't. But she did listen. And we could talk. I felt she was my friend, but first and foremost, she was my mother and I knew she was in charge.
It was strange seeing my mother at the front of that lecture hall. I didn't know how I was going to feel about that. After all, we had just had breakfast together that morning and talked about the usual mother/daughter things we always talked about. Could I get past the fact that the professor was my mother and really learn something? Would she have information to teach me? What if someone in the class said something unkind about her? Could I let it go?
My mother welcomed everyone to the class and gave a brief overview of what we could expect during the eight weeks the class would be in session. And then my mother started the lecture. She didn't use any notes. She never did. She knew her topic so well that the information just flowed from her in her easy style. And the information was very interesting and informative. I listened and took copious notes and somewhere along the way my mother turned into a professor. She was so good and had so much information to share that I got completely lost in the subject matter and forgot that my mother was the person lecturing. But occasionally I'd blink and, once again, my mother would be the one standing up there in front of the class.
At the end of the lecture, the professor disappeared and my mother was, once again, the person standing at the front of the class, answering question from the students who approached her. I looked around at some of the students. Did they know my secret? Did they know that the professor was my mother?
That summer school session passed quickly. My mother and the professor morphed back and forth from one person to another during the whole time, like those toys that transform from one thing to another with the twist of a wrist. Sometime she was the professor. And then, sometimes, she'd become my mother again.
The lectures were very informative and the experience in the lab, actually assisting the students with their lessons, was incredible. The facts and techniques I learned would prove to be very valuable when I became a teacher.
Did the other students in the class ever learn my secret? Well, yes they did. Did I tell? No. But someone else did. It happened on the last day of the session at the very end of class. The professor was summarizing what we had learned and wishing us all well in our various careers. When she was finished, she asked me to stand. She introduced me. She told the class that she was very proud of me and just wanted to let them know that I was her daughter.
My mother, who had accomplished so many important and noteworthy things in her life, was telling her students that the thing she was proudest of was me! Over the years I heard her lecture many times but I have never been more proud to be her daughter than I was that day when she introduced me to the class.
Today was the first day of class. I was excited. The professor entered the crowded lecture hall and made her way to the front of the room. I had taken a seat about halfway back and a little over to one side. Because of the stadium-style seating in the lecture hall, I had a perfect view of her. The professor faced us, looked around, and the room quieted. It was time to start. Could she see me? I didn't know. She smiled. She was my mother.
When I was growing up, my mother and I had a great relationship -- most of the time. I felt that I could talk to her about anything. She didn't judge me and didn't get angry. I don't mean to imply that she let me do anything I wanted. Far from it! I was an only child and she was very overprotective but she was also fair and she listened. If I disagreed with her I'd let her know how I felt -- that is, after I got over being mad! Sometimes she would change her mind based on what I had to say. And sometimes she wouldn't. But she did listen. And we could talk. I felt she was my friend, but first and foremost, she was my mother and I knew she was in charge.
It was strange seeing my mother at the front of that lecture hall. I didn't know how I was going to feel about that. After all, we had just had breakfast together that morning and talked about the usual mother/daughter things we always talked about. Could I get past the fact that the professor was my mother and really learn something? Would she have information to teach me? What if someone in the class said something unkind about her? Could I let it go?
My mother welcomed everyone to the class and gave a brief overview of what we could expect during the eight weeks the class would be in session. And then my mother started the lecture. She didn't use any notes. She never did. She knew her topic so well that the information just flowed from her in her easy style. And the information was very interesting and informative. I listened and took copious notes and somewhere along the way my mother turned into a professor. She was so good and had so much information to share that I got completely lost in the subject matter and forgot that my mother was the person lecturing. But occasionally I'd blink and, once again, my mother would be the one standing up there in front of the class.
At the end of the lecture, the professor disappeared and my mother was, once again, the person standing at the front of the class, answering question from the students who approached her. I looked around at some of the students. Did they know my secret? Did they know that the professor was my mother?
That summer school session passed quickly. My mother and the professor morphed back and forth from one person to another during the whole time, like those toys that transform from one thing to another with the twist of a wrist. Sometime she was the professor. And then, sometimes, she'd become my mother again.
The lectures were very informative and the experience in the lab, actually assisting the students with their lessons, was incredible. The facts and techniques I learned would prove to be very valuable when I became a teacher.
Did the other students in the class ever learn my secret? Well, yes they did. Did I tell? No. But someone else did. It happened on the last day of the session at the very end of class. The professor was summarizing what we had learned and wishing us all well in our various careers. When she was finished, she asked me to stand. She introduced me. She told the class that she was very proud of me and just wanted to let them know that I was her daughter.
My mother, who had accomplished so many important and noteworthy things in her life, was telling her students that the thing she was proudest of was me! Over the years I heard her lecture many times but I have never been more proud to be her daughter than I was that day when she introduced me to the class.
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