The Reluctant Writer

I was ten years old. My mother and stepfather had separated and my mother had moved my brother and me into an apartment complex on the other side of town. The small two-bedroom apartment we moved into was nothing like the spacious townhouse we left. The bedroom of my brother and I shared was half the size of our previous one, and there was no large backyard for us to play in whenever we wanted to play outside.

Worst of all, we had to change schools, as my mother could not afford the tuition of the private school we previously attended with just her administrative assistant salary. The thought of going to a new school, having to make new friends was both exciting and nerve-racking. Would my new school be way different from my old one? Would I make any friends? Would I fit in?

It was my first day in my new school when I met my 4th-grade teacher, Ms. Purdy. She was seated at her desk by the classroom door and greeted each of us with a smile as we entered. She was a petite Black woman, the first black teacher I ever had, and as a timid Black girl coming from a predominately white school, I immediately felt at ease and welcomed. She had a soft, gentle voice, with a cadence of everlasting patience and wisdom. It was as if she could never display anger or frustration - she would never lose her cool.

I soon discovered she also had a unique sense of style. With her always well-picked afro (I’m pretty sure it was a wig), polyester vest, and bell-bottoms pants, it was as if she had lived her best life in the 1970s and decided to never leave.

She was attentive to all her students, but she had a special affinity for me. Whenever she saw that I was potentially being mischievous - often to be likable amongst my new friends - she would often take to the side and ask me in her soft, caring tone, “Now Anna, why are you doing that? You know better. You don’t have to do what they do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d always respond. I was a well-behaved child and hated getting into trouble. Yet, there were times, in my desperate attempt to be liked by my new ‘friends’, that I would give in to the pressure to do something my classmates thought was funny or cool. Ms. Purdy was aware of this, and so she always kept a watchful eye on me to make sure of wasn’t being led astray.

This was also true when it came to my studies. It became apparent during the year that I was a strong reader and speller, surpassing many students in my class, and Ms. Purdy took notice. One day, she noticed me reading an easy reader book about a pig and its friends. Ms. Purdy called me to her desk to ask me why I was reading that book.

“Because my friends are reading it,” I told her earnestly.

“Now, Anna, you don’t have to read the book just because your friends are reading it. You can read other books if you like. You can read books better for your reading level.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

A few weeks later, my mother comes home from parent-teacher conferences, having spoken to Ms. Purdy. I was a bit nervous to find out what they discussed, and then I heard my mother say what I dreaded hearing, as it usually indicated I was in trouble.

“Anna, come here.”

I slowly walked out of my brother’s and I’s bedroom to meet her as she dug into some plastic bag next to her. She then underhandedly tossed something in my direction, “Catch!”

I caught it, then looked to see it was a novel, titled The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman. It was a book about a Black woman who was born a slave in Louisiana, her life before and after the Civil War, and it was well over 300 pages with a ten font size. It was not a book for your typical 4th grader, but then again, I was not your typical 4th grader, at least not at my current school.

“Ms. Purdy told me you’ve been reading books below your reading level, so I got you a book I know you can read. Read it, and we can talk about it when you finish.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, excited to start reading my new book. It turns out, not only was it a book I could read, but it became one of my favorite books, thanks to Ms. Purdy and her teaching tenacity.

She, however, wasn’t only on top of my reading. Throughout the year, Ms. Purdy would always encourage my writing as well, complimenting my work whenever she had the opportunity. “Anna, that is very good work,” or “Your writing is very good. Keep up the good work,” she would say in her gentle tone. I would politely thank her, although I wasn’t sure if she was just being kind, or if my work was truly worth praising.

Later in the year, we were learning about the desert habitat and the organisms that live there. As part of our lesson, we were asked to create a non-fiction picture book or write a fiction story about a desert animal of our choosing. Although I wasn’t fond of writing a fiction story, the idea of creating a non-fiction book by drawing lots of pictures didn't sound interesting to me at all. So I chose to write a fiction story, with my animal of choice being the sandfish - a lizard in the Saharan and Arabian deserts that moves swiftly through sand as if it “swims”.

What was supposed to be a simple, two-page story became a five-chapter, handwritten story titled The Selfish Sandfish. It included hand-drawn illustrations, and I even designed the cover, making it my very first book! I couldn’t wait to show Ms. Purdy my completed project, and her reaction was everything I had hoped. With her calm demeanor, she nodded, smiled, and said, “Very good work, Anna.”

“Thank you, Ms. Purdy,” I said, both proud of myself and grateful for her guidance. Ms. Purdy was clearly proud of me, too, as she marked my book project with an A++ and topped it off with a “Very Good Job!”. When I showed my mother what grade she had given me for my project, she said, "I like Ms. Purdy; she is a great teacher for you.”

Mom was certainly right. After my time in Ms. Purdy’s class, I continued creative writing, including poems, plays, songs, and eventually children’s books. I later founded my own publishing company and named it after the book project that started it all, called Sandfish Publishing.

Ms. Purdy, thank you for encouraging me to be my best during a difficult time in my childhood. As I find myself getting a bit emotional writing this, I want you to know that you opened my eyes to talents I wasn’t aware I had, and I truly appreciate your patience and compassion towards me. I am so grateful I had the opportunity to be mentored and guided by you.

May you rest in peace.