This story was written almost 50 years ago but actually only made it down on paper just last week. Swirling around in my head in the distant fog, a childhood memory was jarred loose and brought back to the surface by a recent event. Now to most, that may seem a bit strange, but then again, so am I.
The many fond memories I have of our time spent growing up at 110 Flamingo Street could fill volumes. This isn’t one of them. You see, things weren’t always so rosy. Sometimes things were so bad I dreaded even getting out of bed. The doldrums were always on a school day and always for the same reason — my teeth. I’ll explain.
At 9 I hit a growth spurt during the summer and grew over two inches. By the time I’d reached Old Mrs. Crabtree’s third-grade class at Mt. Olive Elementary School, I’d had another growth spurt.
I walked into her classroom that first day with two of biggest front teeth anyone had ever seen on a third grader. Kids don’t need an excuse to make fun of you, and in my case, they didn’t have just one reason, they had two. But the trouble with my front teeth went far past the way they looked.
Most kids loved Fridays. I didn’t. Fridays meant spelling bees and reading our book reports out loud.
Both things were extremely difficult to do with two giant front teeth. Words just didn’t seem to be able to go around them. During spelling bees, I tried but mispronounced every word.
When it came to reading out loud, I used every excuse that I could not to do it. Even though Mrs. Crabtree scolded the other students in class when they made fun of me, some still did. Eventually, I hardly talked in school at all.
Upon reaching Briarwood, Home of the Mighty Buccaneers, I’d finally grown into my teeth, but the damage had already been done. I cringed anytime a teacher selected me to read anything out loud. There I sat in every classroom, third row over and third seat back, hardly saying a word out of fear someone would make fun of the big-toothed kid once again.
My fear of public speaking didn’t end upon graduation from high school. It followed me all the way to college.
Before the end of my second year, I had to take a speech class for one quarter. Every week we had to go in front of the class and give a five-minute speech. I wasn’t scared. I was terrified, and rightfully so.
My first speech was such a disaster, the professor asked me to stay after class.
When we met, he shared that he too had the same problem long ago and possibly knew a way to help. What he said to me that Friday afternoon changed my life forever.
My speech professor told me to talk about what I knew best, perhaps a fun memory from the past.
The following week was the first time I talked about growing up at 110 Flamingo Street.
I enjoyed his class and learned so much that I took it not just one but three quarters. By the end of the year, everyone in his class knew about all the kids who grew up on Flamingo Street. Because of that one teacher, I’d conquered my fear of public speaking.
This week my niece Katie asked me to speak to her fifth-grade class at Sara Harp Minter Elementary. Seems she had done a book report and had chosen one of my books.
I told stories for an hour to 90 students, introducing a whole new generation to the antics of all those kids who lived on Flamingo Street.
Pulling away from the school and heading back home, I remembered that college professor so many years ago who changed my life and helped me chase away my greatest fear.
To be a teacher trying to navigate this ever-changing educational landscape of today is difficult.
With increases in classroom sizes and accountability, the true reason can easily be lost. But the difference a teacher can make in a student’s life hasn’t been — especially in the life of one kid with two big front teeth so many years ago.
