The Miracle in Room 21

He changed my life.

I didn't want to be in his class.  I wanted Mr. Sturtevant, the young "cool" teacher, not him.  He had a stony demeanor that accompanied his strange gait.  Bob Tickner was a victim of his time--polio had attacked him as a child, leaving him badly crippled but not beaten.  His presence alone was enough to startle an eleven-year-old girl.  And now I was assigned to his classroom.  Help.

I don't remember the first day or days in Room 21 at Sawtooth Elementary in Twin Falls, ID.  What I do remember is how his passion for teaching touched a chord inside me that had been waiting to be played.

100 percent on a Social Studies test won you a full-size candy bar.  Miss one?  You were still rewarded with a piece of Hubba Bubba gum--and you could chew it IN CLASS.

Vocabulary lessons centered around involved games of Concentration on the overhead, boys against girls--I learned the definition of inane that year.

It was 1980, and Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan were going head-to-head.  We drew states out of a bag and held our own election--casting votes as the electoral college and coloring the states blue or red.  Reagan won in our class, too--by an even larger margin.

I remember exactly where I was sitting and looking up at the 70's-issue classroom clock/intercom when the announcement came that President Reagan had been shot.  Ironically, we were studying the life story of "Jack" Kennedy for Reading.  He used this as a poignant teaching moment, not as a time to frighten us.

All of these lessons.  Not what he truly taught me.

Mr. Tickner reached out to an impulsive, hyper, unpopular girl.  He reached inside my soul and taught me that it was more than okay to be me--it was joyous, wonderful and spectacular to be me.  I got to be captain of teams, chew gum in class, and share answers and my viewpoint.  In his classroom and in his opinion, it was glorious to be a smart girl.  I'd never had such acceptance before, and I flourished in that environment.

It wasn't all a bed of roses, to be sure.  He caught me "assisting" a friend  on a Science quiz, surreptitiously signing the letter answers across the room.  This infraction cost me dearly--a C on my report card.  And I was humbled.

I've never forgotten the lessons learned in Room 21, nor have the memories of his lessons dimmed.  Thirty years.  And I still remember the joy of sitting on our desks watching him mediate a competitive academic game.  I can still see into that magic drawer in his desk, stewing over the Butterfinger/Snickers decision.

A few years ago, I decided to see if he was still alive--to an eleven-year-old, he'd seemed ancient, but he was probably only in his early forties at the time (gasp--that's me!).  There he was--still on the same street in Twin Falls, ID.  So I wrote him a letter of gratitude, thanking him for opening the door on my true self. Thanking him for helping me see a little of what I could become. My adult self wondered if it were even possible that he'd remember my sixth-grade self.

He did.  A few weeks later, I received a letter in the mail. He did remember.  And he was grateful that I did, too.

We all have people like Bob Tickner in our lives--those who reach that inner place and leave us forever changed.   I issue you this challenge--think of someone who has done this to you and for you, someone you've never thanked.  It could be your mom, your sixth-grade teacher, your favorite author--someone past or present.  Come back on Friday and share that hero of yours with the rest of us--I have someone in mind.  You'll be glad you did.  And so will they.

Looking forward to Friday.