WHEN THE STUDENT IS READY, THE TEACHER WILL APPEAR

Have you ever found yourself doing something, very ordinary... something that you do almost all of the time without thinking about it and then suddenly, your mind wanders... wanders to a place you hadn't thought about in years. A place where if you actually had to drive there you would need mapquest and a field guide to get there. That happened to me this morning. I was working, typing or...whatever they pay me to do around here and then I blinked. When my mind's eyes opened, I was in Kindergarten sitting Indian style in a semi-circle. I was in Mrs. Richardson's classroom at John Wister Elementary School. I was listening to her play the piano and sing our morning song... Good Morning, to you. Good Morning, to you. Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Morning, to you. I could see her light-skinned face, her red hair and big pearl earrings and matching necklace. I remember her sitting straight and tall. Speaking loud and clear and strong. I could smell her perfume. It all seemed so tangible. I could even remember that P.I.A. Michael Davis that made my cry on my first day of school. I can still clearly see pictures hanging in the classroom of African Kings and Queens (not that I remember their names), but I remember learning about far off countries... Ghana, Mali, Ethiopia. I remember it seeming to important to her for us to learn our heritage... to learn for learnings sake. I remember her teaching us the poem, I am Somebody. We recited it well-enough but the meaning of it was lost on most of us. At least on me, at the time. Mrs. Richardson was of the generation that saw and experienced hoses and dogs being turned on them for trying to get an education. A generation who knew what it was to be denied things necessary to add life to their years. A generation that was impassioned and hungry and wanted better and was willing to work for it. As my attention returned to the task at hand, I thought about how I didn't learn much about those great Kings and Queens after that. I realize how I've neglected to pursue the knowledge on my own... more concerned with my own plight here and now; completely ignorant to how history is intertwined with my story. What's worse, I've passed that onto my children. How would Mrs. Richardson feel about that? (God Rest Her Soul). I remember her and other teachers like her... Older, Proud Black Women. Mother's of the community, with deep vested personal interest in the success of each child under their care. The struggles they endured and won against produced a quality of character that is seldom seen today among people of my age group. It's even more rare in some of our children. How did we go from being Kings and Queens in our own right as a people. It seems our struggle as a people has become so personalized that as a people we mostly fight each other. Will there ever be another charismatic leader that galvanize our peoples to bring the Unity back in community?

I now realize how good I had it in front of that piano. I know realize that Mrs. Richardson taught me much more than how to tie my shoes and button my shirt straight. What she taught me was never written on a blackboard or a worksheet. It was in her speech. In her posture. In her character. I miss Mrs. Richardson. I'm sorry she'll never know how she affected me. I'm sorry it's taken so long to learn what was so plain and in front of my face everyday when I was 5.