A History of a History Teacher

I hated Mrs Bruce in high school. She taught history in a way that didn’t work for me. She would assign a chapter for us to read, have the class copy her notes on that chapter’s subject, verbatim, and then we would be quizzed. She would lecture, but it was minimal. She stuck to the facts. She answered our questions, but there was no discussion to be had. In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Write that down. Any questions? Now: In what year did Columbus sail the ocean blue? There was very little engagement with the class, and that was my real objection to her style. While we read, wrote, and tested, she drank coffee and enjoyed her newspaper.

She wasn’t particularly fond of me either. Looking back, I don’t remember any particular confrontation with her or why I felt that she didn’t care for me, but in retrospect, I probably didn’t work very hard at masking my disdain for her. I’m sure she was simply reflecting my aggression back at me. The fact that I rarely turned my homework in probably didn’t help my cause any either. Homework? Oh, I was above that shit, man.

Just before graduation day, I calculated my grade in her class. I was failing by something like three points. Too many zeroes filled in the the spaces between the hundreds I received on her quizzes. I couldn’t graduate if I failed her class. Fuck. I was going to have to spend a summer with her smug face buried in a newspaper in front of me at her desk. She’d be all evil laughter inside of her head too, relishing my failure.

This haunted me as graduation day loomed ever closer. I let my parents buy my cap and gown for me. How could I tell them I wasn’t graduating? I went to the graduation rehearsals. I went to the parties. I couldn’t sleep at night. As much as I loathed Mrs Bruce, I knew it was my own fault. She wasn’t failing me. I had failed myself.

Report cards came out. I had a D. What?!? The dreaded Mrs Bruce had floated me some points so I could graduate. I couldn’t believe it. I went back to my grades and redid the math. I should have failed (her class, anyways, my math class grades were great). Did I miss something? A third take on my math brought on the same answer.

I wanted to take her aside and ask her, but I didn’t have the guts. The closest I got was on graduation day, standing in line with my classmates, waiting to be ushered into the ceremony. Here came Mrs Bruce along with her minion, another teacher who looked exactly like a storybook evil witch, the eater of lost children in the woods. They could oftentimes be seen huddled together in the corners of the halls, laughing maniacally, plotting the downfall of the student population, trading incantations. I called out to my nemesis, “We did it, Mrs Bruce!”

She nodded and looked to her friend. “There’s a lot of bullshit in the hall today,” commented the witch.

Fast forward a decade plus. Mrs Bruce had become a regular at the bookstore I was working at. She was retired by then, and she was genuinely enjoying that retirement. I dreaded waiting on her that first time, but I was surprised to find her a joy to talk with. She relished her free time for reading. She loved her grandchildren deeply.

I learned to appreciate history from a teacher at the same school who told us the facts along with alternate facts, possibilities, backstories, and gossip. He taught us that regardless of how you think of a person in history, they were a real live multi-dimensional human being once. They lived. I‘m glad that I got to know Mrs Bruce later on in my life. As a kid, it’s easy to see people one-dimensionally, and I could have carried on with my resentment for her if I hadn’t spent some time with her as an adult. That sincere smile in her obit picture is how I remember her from our talks at the bookstore. 

See you around, Mrs Bruce. Thanks for your service to the kids of Newport. And those three points.