Stories of My Life: My 8th Grade English Teacher

When I was in eighth grade I had an English teacher named Mrs. Gott. She wore beautiful clothes and high heels, and had amazing curly blonde hair. She wrote novels and melodramas, and convinced eighth grade boys to wear makeup and perform in said melodramas. She taught country dancing and chess. She was, in a word, fabulous.

I was a shy and studious girl with a secret love for writing. My nose was probably one shade past tan and I was eager to please and impress my new teacher. For my first assignment I wrote an essay about what life was like growing up in a family of five daughters.

When I got my essay back, it was delightfully covered in scrawls of black ink--Mrs. Gott loved my essay! The only one of the many comments that I remember to this day is that she said I wrote in "stream of consciousness." I had no idea what that meant, but it was apparently a good thing and I was darn proud. This was an affirmation from a literary professional--an English teacher!

A short time later, Mrs. Gott pulled me aside after class. She thought I had talent and wanted to nurture my writing skills outside of the regular class work. I was beyond honored. I felt like Mrs. Gott believed in me in that moment more than anyone ever had.

She told me about a literary journal called Stone Soup that published fictional short stories by kids. I studied copies of the journal so I could get a taste for what they were looking for. I labored over an idea and began working on a piece about a secret pen pal friendship between a white girl and an African American slave. Mrs. Gott helped me refine it and submit it to Stone Soup. Weeks passed as I waited eagerly to hear good news from the publisher. I had a good feeling. I was a good writer. Mrs. Gott said so.

I got the letter. "Dear Olive, thank you for sending us your work. Unfortunately..." I cried. Devastation faded to disappointment and turned into doubt--doubt about the so-called "talent" I had.

It may have been a few days before I had the guts to take the sordid piece of rejection to school and show Mrs. Gott. After class, I sheepishly approached her desk, cheeks burning, tears brimming, and handed her the letter. She looked it over, and became ecstatic. Ecstatic?

"This is a personalized rejection letter!" she cheered. "They put your name on the top! And it's a full piece of paper, not just a slip. And look--look! The editor wrote with her own pen on the bottom of the page, 'Send us more of your work!.'" Mrs. Gott licked her finger and smudged the ink to prove it was not a printed stamp. "Amazing!"

When I got home, I hung the letter, open-faced and proud, on the magnet board in my bedroom. I am a good writer. Mrs. Gott said so. And there the letter stayed until I graduated from high school and moved away from home.