A LETTER TO BARBARA LUNDGREN, my second grade teacher
Dear Miss Lundgren,
You were my second grade teacher in 1960. That is over 50 years ago now and I can still remember everything about you. And eveything about you was simply wonderful. One of the happiest years of my life was spent in your classroom. It was you who made me want to become a teacher, and you I always kept in mind as I pursued that goal. I wanted to be someone’s “Miss Lundgren.”
Not to detract an iota from your personal excellence, but as I look back I see the timing was just right, too. Just before I turned seven, my grandma died, my baby sister was born, and my mother had a nervous breakdown – all in the month of August. Then I started second grade. And you were my angel. Your smile told me I was loved. I felt loved all year long. Even when you reprimanded me for laughing too much, I saw your loving smile beneath your frown – I see it now.
I know you taught me a tremendous amount that year; I’m sure it is with you I learned to read and spell, add and subtract. But it is the Native American tribes – their homes, their clothes, their ways – that springs to mind today. And how you would sing with us the last 15 minutes of every day. I carried on that tradition with my own second graders twenty years later. I remember a little piece of manilla paper you stuck a gold star to and wrote “Spelling Champ” across, when I won the class spelling bee. I treasured it. It told me I was smart. I was special. We played “Around the World” to practice our artithmetic facts. Spelling Bees and Around the World – they made Fridays special for my students, too.
Mostly, I remember that your classroom had a golden light blazing at all times – it was warm and bright and happy. And that is because you were exactly that – warm and bright and happy. And that is not as easy as it sounds! You could have been crabby when you had a bad day. You could have given in to the bad moods we are all afflicted by, and taken them out on us, like so many teachers do. But you never did. I’ll bet if your heart had been breaking, you would never have let us see. You had a responsibility to us and you never shirked it. You believed in your important role in our lives. You made us glad to be little girls and boys, glad to get up each day, to come to school and learn, glad to be alive! I would have packed my little suitcase and lived in your classroom if I could have.
When school was over that year, I went home with my excellent report card, slipped into my room, and wept. With all my heart, I loved you and every joyful day you gave me. But out with the old and in with the new – next year you would have other children to love. I could not bear it.
Two years later, when I was nine, I dreamed about you. It was such a vivid dream that I woke up needing to see you. You had gotten engaged the year I was with you, married the next, and now you were pregnant and home on maternity leave. I can’t recall how, but I found your phone number and called you. I can see the yellow wall phone in the basement in my hand this moment. My hazy recollection is that I did this on the sly, against my mother’s wishes. You invited me over after school and my mother grudgingly drove me. I remember the disapproval on her face. It said she considered this unseemly behavior. Or could she have been jealous? Your house was the way your classroom had been – warm, bright, and happy. Your baby was big beneath your maternity top. I had to leave much too soon and my heart ached, wishing I could be that baby you were about to have.
I know now that so much of what was right about that year had to do with what was wrong at home. But the result is the same – for nine months I was the apple of your eye. And now I realize, that was precisely your magic. Every child you ever taught must have felt exactly the same way. I wasn’t the only one to go home and cry at the end of the year.
Miss Lundgren, you were my hero. I wanted to be just like you. I had to give back to other children what you first gave to me. And I did. And I thank you.
With endless love and gratitude,
Valerie Irene Kuhn
Dear Miss Lundgren,
You were my second grade teacher in 1960. That is over 50 years ago now and I can still remember everything about you. And eveything about you was simply wonderful. One of the happiest years of my life was spent in your classroom. It was you who made me want to become a teacher, and you I always kept in mind as I pursued that goal. I wanted to be someone’s “Miss Lundgren.”
Not to detract an iota from your personal excellence, but as I look back I see the timing was just right, too. Just before I turned seven, my grandma died, my baby sister was born, and my mother had a nervous breakdown – all in the month of August. Then I started second grade. And you were my angel. Your smile told me I was loved. I felt loved all year long. Even when you reprimanded me for laughing too much, I saw your loving smile beneath your frown – I see it now.
I know you taught me a tremendous amount that year; I’m sure it is with you I learned to read and spell, add and subtract. But it is the Native American tribes – their homes, their clothes, their ways – that springs to mind today. And how you would sing with us the last 15 minutes of every day. I carried on that tradition with my own second graders twenty years later. I remember a little piece of manilla paper you stuck a gold star to and wrote “Spelling Champ” across, when I won the class spelling bee. I treasured it. It told me I was smart. I was special. We played “Around the World” to practice our artithmetic facts. Spelling Bees and Around the World – they made Fridays special for my students, too.
Mostly, I remember that your classroom had a golden light blazing at all times – it was warm and bright and happy. And that is because you were exactly that – warm and bright and happy. And that is not as easy as it sounds! You could have been crabby when you had a bad day. You could have given in to the bad moods we are all afflicted by, and taken them out on us, like so many teachers do. But you never did. I’ll bet if your heart had been breaking, you would never have let us see. You had a responsibility to us and you never shirked it. You believed in your important role in our lives. You made us glad to be little girls and boys, glad to get up each day, to come to school and learn, glad to be alive! I would have packed my little suitcase and lived in your classroom if I could have.
When school was over that year, I went home with my excellent report card, slipped into my room, and wept. With all my heart, I loved you and every joyful day you gave me. But out with the old and in with the new – next year you would have other children to love. I could not bear it.
Two years later, when I was nine, I dreamed about you. It was such a vivid dream that I woke up needing to see you. You had gotten engaged the year I was with you, married the next, and now you were pregnant and home on maternity leave. I can’t recall how, but I found your phone number and called you. I can see the yellow wall phone in the basement in my hand this moment. My hazy recollection is that I did this on the sly, against my mother’s wishes. You invited me over after school and my mother grudgingly drove me. I remember the disapproval on her face. It said she considered this unseemly behavior. Or could she have been jealous? Your house was the way your classroom had been – warm, bright, and happy. Your baby was big beneath your maternity top. I had to leave much too soon and my heart ached, wishing I could be that baby you were about to have.
I know now that so much of what was right about that year had to do with what was wrong at home. But the result is the same – for nine months I was the apple of your eye. And now I realize, that was precisely your magic. Every child you ever taught must have felt exactly the same way. I wasn’t the only one to go home and cry at the end of the year.
Miss Lundgren, you were my hero. I wanted to be just like you. I had to give back to other children what you first gave to me. And I did. And I thank you.
With endless love and gratitude,
Valerie Irene Kuhn