Last week, I visted my old stomping grounds, Civic Memorial High School. I adored high school, and as I am embarking on this, my final year of college, I decided that it was only right that I thank two teachers who have greatly impacted my life. My friend Callie and I went back to CMHS on the first day of classes, in spite of disbelief from friends who could honestly not believe we were still such huge nerds.
Mr. Graser was the teacher that beat (or taught, I suppose) to a different drum. I was drawn to Mr. Graser because of his unusual ability to grow his eyebrows incredibly long and mussed in fashion. He got to know us, and so we rightly believed him when he warned us of the horrors of college. Mr. Graser’s Biology II class, intended to prepare us for college-level science courses, to this day holds the record for my most time-involving and emotionally stressful class even after three years of college.
Though I am now an English major, ready to begin learning about rock ‘n’ roll literature and the mysterious “?” vowel in Old English, I remember what Mr. Graser taught us. He somehow had us climbing riverbanks and jumping fences into horse pastures in search of sporophytes (which, now of course, I smash whenever I see them). After collecting a virtual picture encyclopedia of real plant specimens from the greater Madison county in Illinois, and receiving a less than perfect grade, I received my first B on a report card. Ever. I lost all hope of being valedictorian, cried and self-pitied and swore I would never talk to Mr. Graser again. This lasted about one day.
Mr. Dickey was my other favorite teacher. He taught more concrete lessons about velocity and the Periodic Table. I learned quickly that I would not breeze through Mr. Dickey’s classes. Homework, which had previously seemed a useless tool, became vital for understanding. The mastery of a lesson in physics was an unbelievable feeling. Even though I realized at Saint Louis University that the college pre-medical track was almost exactly the opposite of what I would to follow, I understand now why I enjoyed those subjects so well. In Mr. Dickey’s classes, I actually appreciated learning and understanding a subject, rather than working only to receive a high grade (though, of course, I still wanted that).
When Callie and I returned to the school, we found a cold, albeit more secure, campus. I felt bad for the freshman who would have a difficult time skipping out of the school to play hookey, like we had done. OK, so I only skipped once or twice and came back after an hour both times (who could disappoint Mr. Dickey?). But I could have.
Our discussion with Mr. Graser was typical of a conversation with Mr. Graser. We talked about school, dating, being 21 and about being, kind of, nearly, adults or something. Regretfully, Mr. Graser had to rush away, surely to some botanical bonanza deep in the forest with hedge-row-eyebrowed men and women.
We spoke with Mr. Dickey of the same things, though a bit more seriously and more aimed to impress him. He told us that his chemistry class this year was a generally intelligent and eager one, as ours had been. We told him thank you for everything, and left.
It was sad to leave, and I almost wanted to go back (then I remembered my old ridiculous curfew). I think it was important to see them again before moving out of the educational final zone that precedes “real life.” They really were the men who began my education, and it was only right that I see them before I finish it.
Jamie Robinson is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences.
