Ms. Write

My sixth grade teacher came on to me.

Not that way. The way good teachers turn kids on and change their lives forever, for the better. 

Ms. Pezzolano: "Class, I want each of you to write a story about anything you want and I’ll collect your stories tomorrow."

Years later, when I was paid to write advertising, I always got two weeks to turn in an assignment.  Then, again, I was getting paid for those.

Write anything?  Sometimes, it's easier when you have fences, borders (parents, take note).

We never got an assignment like that before. But, this was the sixth grade. The big time, the show. Write anything you want? Isn't that what real, grown-up writers do? Write anything they want. 

I went home, did my homework and the next day she collected our stories.

I wondered what she was thinking as she read mine.  

I starting second guessing myself, "I went too far. Why did I have to write about me being a midget matador? Wasn't a Matador a dorky car from American Motors? Worse, why did I write that I told the bull joke about something being red all over?

Kurt Vonnegut was only half right. Life isn't high school. It's the sixth grade. If you're lucky it's high school, too.

The next day is when it happened. When she said, “Mr. Russo ('Mr.' usually meant I was in trouble), this is really good".

Then, she added, "Maybe you should be a writer.”

Ms. Pezzolono seemed happy. Even proud. As much, if not more, than I was. 
Six words in the sixth grade that meant the world. And, as it  turned out, changed my world forever, for the better.

She asked me to read my story to the class. I did. They laughed.

I was out there. Living on the edge. Untethered. Like when being called  'Mr. Russo' meant I was in trouble.

I may have told my parents. If I did, they took it in stride and went about the business of being busy. Not too busy for us, busy raising us. They had two other kids, three jobs between them, and dinner on the stove.

There hasn’t been a year I haven’t thought of Ms. Pezzolono.  If anyone ever said they liked something wrote since, it never meant nearly as much.

A good teacher makes as much of a difference as a good parent. 

The good teacher I had in the sixth grade did. 

The Pez asked me to read The Bullfight a second time to the class that afternoon. It died. The class didn’t find it nearly as funny the second time around.

That day I learned another important lesson:

Quit while you’re ahead. The end.

People are reading bistro chairs all over the world. I'd love to hear from you. At least, tell me where you're from in the comment box below.