My daughter frequently implores me to “own my geek.” After all, I am a computational physical chemist whose career has spanned research, teaching and administration. I spent the first 15 years after graduate school doing hard-core research, the next eight years as a professor, and sixteen in senior administration including Dean of Science, Engineering and Technology, and Provost/Vice President for Academic Affairs. I loved school as a child, and I love school as an adult. I firmly believe that math and science are awesome, I read voraciously, and I write stories, essays, and even occasional poems. The older I get, the more interested I am in all fields- from art to engineering and history to philosophy. I worked for decades at a university because I never wanted to leave school. Given that background, it seems safe to assume that I did well academically. I recently found my old report cards in a ‘keepsake’ box that belonged to my mother. Aside from the fact that I got upset and cried easily in first grade, I did pretty well overall.

Unless you insist on counting fifth grade. 

Fifth grade seems to be a bad year for children. It was awful for me, and as it turns out, it was awful for both of my kids. In my case, I had a teacher whom I didn’t like and who really didn’t like me. Until that time, I thought that all teachers liked all children and that all children loved all teachers. Not so. My first bad teacher was Mr.Winkle. Mr. Winkle was probably a nice man with a lovely wife and adorable children. Other students may remember him fondly. Maybe. But the Mr.Winkle that I knew was mean and vindictive. It was because of him that I have earned every possible grade on my report card — from A to F.

Penmanship has never been my best subject. Maybe I have poor small motor coordination. Maybe I am inattentive to detail. Whatever the reason, I have never gained full control of my pencil or pen. While my writing is often legible, it is never beautiful. As a grade school kid, I knew my cursive was wobbly, but frankly, I didn’t consider it worth my time or effort to improve my handwriting. I had this crazy idea, even as a nine-year old, that my ideas were more important than the slant of my letters. Mr. Winkle had a different view. In the first marking period of fifth grade, Mr. Winkle gave me my first “C” and of course, it was in penmanship. This did not make much of an impression on me. However, the situation became more dire in the second marking period, when he assigned an essay for our language arts class. I wrote my essay about my love of nature and time spent alone on the banks of a creek near my house, observing birds, fish, and squirrels. I was proud of my essay and eagerly awaited his comments, which I assumed would praise my ideas and creativity.

When he returned our papers, I saw that Mr. Winkle had provided just one comment on my work. It was written in scrawly red longhand and criticized my PENMANSHIP. He complained about uneven spacing between letters, about slants going both right and left, and about insufficient tails on my “y’s” and “g’s” He had nothing to say about the content or ideas. I was crushed. More accurately, I was pissed. I walked up to his desk and said, ever so sweetly, “Mr. Winkle, I am sorry but I can’t read your writing. What does this say?” He turned scarlet as he was forced to read me his comment regarding spacing, slants and tails. My implication was clear and I had won the battle.

A nine-year-old may win an occasional battle, but will rarely win the war. When we got our report cards for the second marking period of fifth grade, I saw his revenge. There in harsh black lettering was an “F” in penmanship. I knew I was in trouble. I knew this was retribution for my blatant disrespect, but I also knew my parents would never be sympathetic to my case. I was doomed. When I got home, I threw the report card into the living room where my mother was watching her soap operas and ran into my bedroom, locked the door and hid under my bed.

I expected sterns words and punishment, but what I got was much worse. My mother was not angry. She did not yell at me. She did not ask how this happened. Instead, she saw how upset I was, tried to comfort me and then decided to help me improve my penmanship. I was immediately sentenced to daily handwriting practice until she was satisfied that my spacing was even, my slants were uniform and that I had sufficient tails on the “g’s” and “y’s.” I would have preferred a short, quick spanking!

In the third and fourth marking periods of fifth grade, my penmanship grades improved, but only slightly. I earned “D’s” on both remaining report cards that year. Mr. Winkle could sure carry a grudge! My mother was clearly surprised that her tutoring efforts paid such meager returns. I could not explain to her what was really going on, and it was not until decades later that she knew the whole story. Fortunately, my other grades for fifth grade were fine and I was promoted to sixth where we were no longer graded on penmanship, much to my relief!

Mr. Winkle did not have a lasting impact on me, other than, perhaps, an early lesson in power dynamics and choosing my battles. My handwriting is still pretty bad, but his thoughtless comment and retribution did not impede my love of learning and writing. I was lucky; my subsequent experiences as both a student and an educator have reinforced my conviction that teachers, at all levels, have tremendous influence over their students. I have seen how small words of encouragement bring about miracles. I have seen how impatience and humiliation can extinguish the flame of learning.

As a professor, I often thought about my really great teachers as well as the very bad ones, trying to emulate what I loved about the best and avoid, at all costs, the behaviors of the worst. As an administrator, I have asked all faculty to do the same and to honor their best teachers by saying their names.

Mr. Sayers, Dr. Bobbit, Dr. Bailey, Dr. Gatta, Dr. Stock, Dr. Zito, Keith.

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