The Gift of Learning

Dear Mrs Logue,

My mother had a saying, "a teacher can either turn a kid off or they can turn a kid on to learning." I didn't really understand what that meant when I was young, but my mother, who had unfulfilled teaching aspirations said it with such conviction that I knew it had to be true.

And I found out later that it was. I didn't appreciate how true it was at the time, but I did come to understand and appreciate the value of an exceptional teacher and they didn't come any more exceptional than you, Madelyn Logue, or as I knew you, Mrs. Logue.

You were my grade 1 teacher and before that, my brother's. You were one of those born teachers. It wasn't a job, it was a calling and you answered it with everything you had.

In September of 1971, my father met with you to let you know about the children he'd taken in, particularly the 6-year-old boy who struggled with letters and numbers. That boy was my brother, who had lost his mother less than 3 weeks before having to enroll in a strange school, in a strange town, in a strange province where he was sent to live with strangers.

Brian had been raised largely by our maternal grandmother, a well-meaning but tired senior citizen who had reared her own kids, was widowed and had my disabled uncle Bobby to care for. She had love in spades, but had neither the time nor the energy to educate a young boy beyond the trials and tribulations of the soap operas of the day. When our mother passed away unexpectedly at the age of 26, the powers that be wouldn't let him stay with Grammie.

You accepted Brian enthusiastically and with open arms. You listened to my father's concerns with an open mind and an open heart. You didn't care that it was a Black man sitting in front of her. You didn't mind that the child you'd be charged with, along with 30 others that year, came from unfortunate circumstances. You embraced him and you taught him.

I can only tell this part of the story from my mother's recollection as I was an infant. Brian blossomed in your class! In weeks, he went from a dispaced, unfortunate child of a deceased mother who couldn't spell, read or sound out letters to an enthusiastic student.

His eyes, once dull, became bright as the fire of learning was lit beneath him. His security, from being accepted in a safe space with a caring mentor, grew. You accepted him as he was and at the end of the year, he was a model student, a top student. You met him where he was. You loved and accepted him as he was. You let him grow at his own pace. You saw the brilliant child behind the pain.

Six years later, it was my turn to enter your grade 1 class at Hubbard Avenue Elementary. As he did with my brother, my father attended the school to have a chat with my assigned teacher.

This time, the circumstances were different. I'd been with my father since I was 3 weeks old. I wasn't lacking in the basics. In fact, my mother taught me to read at 3 because she was annoyed that I kept interrupting her newspaper time. I was the very opposite of my brother.

I remember my first day of first grade. you were there, your dyed black hair in a sort of bouffant, greeting all of us. You hugged me and welcomed me to the class. I remember feeling instantly warm and safe.

I showed up reading, writing and ready to take on the world! And it didn't take me long to figure out I was the odd kid out.

I was odd. I loved books. I loved words. I loved to read and write. I loved numbers. I loved school. Whatever you put in front of me, I eagerly finished and finished quickly.

You had 30 other students that year. It was 1976 and CFB Gagetown was hopping. Yet, you seemed to find time for me. For all of us. I'm not sure how you managed to provide individual attention to 31 children with differing needs. All I know is that you did.

For me, it wasn't just praise or gold stars. You took the time to allow me to read stories to the class. You took the time to copy extra, more advanced worksheets for me way before photocopying was a thing. The sheets were crude and the print was purplish, but I was okay with it.

When A Duck is a Duck, the first reader we were assigned wasn't enough for me, you allowed me to access her vast classroom library. When you saw I was ready for more, you just quietly gave it to me.

I felt safe. I felt valued. I felt smart. And I felt loved. That was your greatest power, to make every single student feel loved. It didn't matter who you were or where you stood in class, you gave your love to every one of us, without condition. We wanted to learn for you.

I remember vividly standing in line to get a hug from you for a job well done. I lived for those moments! Your classroom was a warm, accepting space for all. Most days, I remember you at the end of the day, standing at the door with hugs for all and some days, if we were really good, a small bag of candy.

I bet you don't remember that day in the spring of 1977, do you? It was the day I burst into tears, terrified I'd done something wrong. I couldn't fathom what I'd done. I was a good little girl, yet I was being called to the office. I'd been summoned by vice-principal, Theresa Herbert, or as we called her Miss E-Bear. She was a nice enough lady, but to be called in front of the administration was more than my 6-year-old heart could handle.

Imagine my surprise (and relief) when I found out the call wasn't for disciplinary action, but for cookie making. You'd noticed I was particularly bored in class and fidgeting, even after the extra work. Easter was coming up, as were the classroom parties, and off you sent me, not for punishment, but for fun. I spent the entire afternoon making cookies for the whole school with the vice principal.

After I got over the shock and fear, I felt special. I felt rewarded and valued. I felt seen and heard. I felt like you got me, like you felt my boredom and found a way to fix it. No teacher since has done that for me. You copied sheets, sent me to make cookies, let me go to the library, where I was taught the Dewy Decimal System 3 years before the rest of my contemporaries.

You encouraged me to read bigger and bigger books, presenting me with my very first chapter book, On The Banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder. You let me keep it. And I ended up buying and reading the entire series.

You saw me. You really saw me. You saw Brian. You saw every single child in every single class you taught. Somehow, you saw all of us and you were able to meet us exactly where we were, teach and love us and set us up for success.

As much as I lived for your approval then, I lived even more for the moments we shared well after I left your classroom. Mrs Logue, you always took an active interest in me, and I in you. As a so-called senior in elementary school, I visited you and your class regularly as a "big sister," imparting my reading ability to the young ones.

But it went beyond that. You were in my blood. I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to be just like you. I wanted to mould young minds, to love them, to give them wings and then send them into the world. I wanted to please you and make you proud. I wanted to be just like you.

That wasn't to be. I was me and you made me see that. You were honest with me. You talked to me like I was an equal, even when I was a child.

I was the geek that went back to her elementary school to talk to you even after I'd been gone for years. Your wisdom and compassion were things I craved as an awkward kid. So, I went back to where I could find it, and you never disappointed. You always had time for me.

I still remember you telling me that teaching might not be the best profession to suit my personality and that maybe law, another option I was considering, was a better fit. You were right. And I was better for it. You gave me an honest assessment of my strengths and my personality as you saw them.

And your teaching and my love and respect for it weren't totally lost on me. I taught all 3 of my boys with you in mind, always with love and patience.

I treasured our visits. But as young people do, I went on my way. You retired and we lost touch. You passed away in 2015, unbeknownst to me. One of my biggest regrets is that you never knew that I did well. You also never knew my brother made out okay, although you did ask a few times.

You didn't know I graduated at the top of my undergraduate class. You never knew I graduated from law school as a top student. You never knew I decided to write, even though I wrote poems and stories in your class.

Most of all, you never knew the impact you had, and still have on my life. When I encounter a teacher, I hold them to your standard. I ask myself, do you accept all children? Do you light up when they learn? Do you want to find and nurture their strengths? Can you meet them where they're at and make them feel valued?

I've encountered many teachers in my time. And none have quite met your mark. You started me on the right foot. You instilled a love of learning and of reading in me. You accepted me as I was, as you did all children in your charge. You were and still are my hero. I'll always treasure our chats and the kind and generous way you found a way to see each individual child in the sea of the classroom and make them feel special.

My mother was right. A teacher can either turn a child off or turn them on to learning and you, Mrs Logue, turned me on with your wisdom and compassion.

I remember the way your eyes lit up when any of us, any student, got it. It didn't matter how bit the breakthrough was. Some of us figured out sentences. Some of us figured out sounds or letter recognition, You celebrated it all!

I can only hope you're looking down and smiling, not only at me but at all the 6 year-olds you took into your classroom and lovingly taught and guided. True teachers like you are rare gems and I was honoured to know you. I just hope I'm worthy. You were a true teacher for a true student.

As for Brian, he's okay. He's a grampy now. He did well. He became a professional cook. He has a gorgeous family, a beautiful wife, great kids and gorgeous and smart grandchildren. You'd be so pleased to know I've seen a few bits of poetry he's written.

As for me, well, I took your sage advice. I didn't go into education. I did the law thing. I raised and taught 3 very bright boys that I often wished could be in your classroom. But teachers like you are a rare treasure indeed. They come along once, maybe twice in a generation. And for me, you'll always be my teacher, my mentor and later, my friend.

It's been more than 45 years, but I can still feel your arms around me. I can still feel the tiny child I was and your middle-aged, soft arms swallowing me up with approval. And I feel you hugging all of us in the class. I can still see you beaming when I read a story to the class or when I conquered a math problem. I can still feel your love, your love for teaching, your love for learning and your love for imparting it all to young minds.

I credit that love for the woman and the writer I am today. So, if no one ever told you, Mrs Madelyn Logue, you were my hero before I knew what a hero was and I thank you for that, like countless others. You came, you saw, you taught with love and I'm so much the better for it.

So Much Love

That Little Motherless Girl From 1976