We didn’t know for sure.
We had only heard rumors.
There was this teacher.
She taught the fourth grade.
She had a piano in the room.
She was fun.
The rumors were confirmed when I became best friends with Michelle, the girl who lived across the street. Michelle lived in my fantasy world: an only child living with her grandparents and single mom plus an entire room covered with posters of Kirk Cameron and Debbie Gibson. Her grandfather had installed a five-tier shelf on the wall, which in my eyes, was a modern day Barbie Bungalow. She had everything I ever wanted. To escape the tailgating of my 5-year old sister and torture of my 12-year-old brother, I went to Michelle’s house. Her house was quiet, she had her own room, and she was one grade ahead of me.
“Then she played the piano and we sang songs for the rest of Friday and we had no homework for the entire weekend,” she said as we dressed Barbie for a night on the town with her anatomically incorrect lady friends. “Let’s go to your house now, what is your brother doing?” She was also bossy and liked coming to my house for some reason.
As we played, I thought about the torturous Mrs. Hanlon and all the homework I had over the weekend. Third grade isn’t all bad, I thought. Then I remembered how we had spent last Friday. Ronnie B had said the F-word and Mrs. Hanlon’s sharp sense of hearing had picked it up. I don’t even think anyone really knew what it meant. As she pulled him to the back of the class, none of us let our heads turn in the direction our eyes were dragging us. We heard grunting and some type of struggle. I pictured Ronnie being strangled. In that moment, I tried to erase every swear word my older brother’s friends had taught me, feeling it would only bring us to the same unfortunate fate that befell poor Ronnie. I should’ve been nicer to him, I thought, it wasn’t his fault he looked funny.
My thoughts were interrupted, as I smelled Mrs. Hanlon’s strong perfume as she walked by. We quickly turned to look at Ronnie when she was in her office. He was alive! He looked like he was picking something out of his mouth. In horror, we saw there were teeth marks on the bar of soap next to the sink! None of us dared to utter a breath of support. Traumatized, we continued our work in silence. Mrs. Hanlon never said a word about if but the tone for the rest of the school year was set.
“…then she took our pictures and gives us stickers on everything. We also have parties all the time,” Michelle continued as I felt a twinge of jealousy for not being in the 4th grade and not having a beautiful Barbie house.
As I walked through the halls of Elm Park Community School, dreading Mrs. Hanlon’s bright red curly hair and how sometimes she would make us scratch her back, I wondered about the 4th grade. Was it really all Michelle said? Did they really have fun and read great books? Well, I thought, I just have to pray real hard and hope I don’t get Mrs. Cook or Ms Sullivan, it had to be Mrs. Coulter, it had to be.
Third grade passed without any more traumatic events. Michelle and I continued to play after school and Ronnie was never really the same. He still caused trouble, but the tone of the class was very somber, perhaps due to the intense social fear she inflicted on us every day. The upcoming summer vacation would have been fun; if our parents didn’t put us in summer school every year. Mom and Dad decided the school year was too short in America. When we tried to explain what summer school was in the States, we were punished with memorizing times tables for any spare time we might have had. As the summer ended, I was ready to go back to school, but I was both nervous and excited.
The school auditorium was dark as we sat down to wait for our names to be called by the teachers. I cringed and said a silent prayer for anyone who had been called up by Mrs. Hanlon. Her hair color had changed, I observed, but I then was distracted. Mrs. Hanlon walked away with her class and another woman stood up. I didn’t have to strain my neck to see because she was so tall. It was Mrs. Coulter. As she began calling our names, I cursed my ancestors for always landing me up at the end of every line with a last name that began with a V.
“Nevra, Ronnie, Joanna, Elia”, as I heard my friend’s names I hoped I was not far behind. She got to the end of the page as my heart pounded in my ears. As she looked up, I thought she was done. No, it can’t be, I prayed all summer! Thank god, she was trying to pronounce my name “and Meenakshi”. I wanted to jump up, scream with joy, and maybe even hug Ronnie. Calmly, I walked to the end of the line and watched the disappointed faces of the fourth graders left behind.
Fourth grade was one thousand times better than I had imagined it in the best of all my dreams and Michelle’s detailed accounts. To make it even better, Mrs. Coulter had chosen me as one of her favorites. As part of the privileged six, we were seated closest to Mrs. Coulter, on hand to perform miscellaneous errands as needed.
I was never sure why I was one of Mrs. Coulter’s favorites. Maybe she saw there was something extremely eccentric about this little Indian girl who always wore two braids to school and loved to stay after school to wash the chalkboards. Overall, the year was fantastic. My grades, always A’s and B’s, were now A+’s. I read books at the 6th grade reading level and won a drawing contest. In addition to a supportive learning environment, Mrs. Coulter arranged several pen pals for us for a wider cultural experience. Some of our pen pals were located on a Zuni Reservation in New Mexico. Many of us came from working class families, and Mrs. Coulter taught us the value of helping those less fortunate. We all donated a gift to our pen pals when Mrs. Coulter hand delivered them to New Mexico during April vacation.
Every day we read stories and wrote some of our own. Fridays were filled with songs and music from all over the world. The classroom was inherently different from the others. It was decorated with the brightness of our dreams. There were letters from pen pals, book reports, photographs, and creative projects. She introduced us to her favorite teacher, Mrs. Anne, a 90-year-old woman who still visited Mrs. Coulter. I knew Mrs. Coulter would remain my favorite teacher forever too. Happiness radiated throughout the room. Even if Ronnie was being bad, I don’t really remember because I was too busy being happy.
One day after school, I was playing with my sister and the children my mom would baby-sit when the doorbell rang. My mom was on the phone so I answered the door. It was Mrs. Coulter. Slightly embarrassed, I let her in. My mom was cooking and the smell of onions, ginger, and coriander filled the house. What if she thought our family was weird because we were Indian? Whose teacher came to their house anyways? Was there enough time to call Michelle and ask her what to do? Mrs. Coulter rushed in and started speaking to my mother.
“I am so sorry to disturb you Mrs. V, but my car broke down, and I would like to use your phone”, she said.
My mother led her to the phone and put the little kids in our small spare room. I watched quietly from behind the door as Mrs. Coulter called her husband. When she was done and Mr. Coulter on the way, she patted me on the head, thanked my mother and left. The next day at school, I wondered if the entire school would know my mom cooks with onions and we have lots of little kids in the house. Instead, before I left for the day, Mrs. Coulter called me in the office. That had never happened to me before, maybe I was in trouble for something, maybe being a mean sister. I made a mental note to try to give my sister to Michelle as soon as possible- perhaps she would be treated better at the Barbie Bungalow. Relieved, I saw a big box gift wrapped on her desk.
“Give this to your family and send them my thanks” she said. There were cookies in the box for everyone.
As the school year was coming to an end in May, my parents decided it was time to take a trip back to India. It had been five years since we came to America and none of us had been back since. This was of particular importance to my mother who had received a call about her father’s death a year back, and in mourning was unable to be with her brothers and sisters. She was eager to go back, we all were. I looked forward to my paternal grandfather’s stories about Krishna, Rani Jhansi, and the Ramayana. My grandmothers would admonish us for out loud laughter while torturing cousins. As an added bonus, this would mean no summer school. However, we had to leave on June 7th in order to get cheap tickets so the whole family could go.
“June 7th? June 7th?! I am going to miss school! Mom, can’t we leave after school is over?” I pleaded with my mother but realized she was too busy packing the suitcases.
“Geek,” hissed my brother under his breath.
I ignored him and went to speak to my father. He was always going on about the importance of studies, furthering one’s education in the land of opportunity, I thought it might be a good time to remind him of the great American dream: going to school until June 23rd.
“Dad, please, I don’t want to miss school,” I asked quietly.
“I am sorry Meenakshi, but this is the only time we can all go, and I have already bought the tickets. But don’t worry beta, we’ll make sure we get all the extra homework from Mrs. Coulter before you leave,” he said calmly. Walking away, I thought about all the fun I would miss.
Mrs. Coulter was very understanding. She explained she was teaching 5th grade next year and I would be in her class. She also declared my last day of school would be spent as a bon voyage party for me where everyone would make cards and wish me well. Star of the day, I could handle it. And, since she would be teaching the 5th grade, missing 1 month wasn’t so bad. Ahhh, the 5th grade, I would be coasting along in another year of the privileged six. At the end of day, she took my picture with her and I tearfully said goodbye. Mrs. Coulter took my grandfather’s address and promised to write.
The trip to India took us to the Taj Mahal in Agra and we visited relatives in the northern hills. Air India managed to lose five of our suitcases, so it was a good thing we had ten. It sure beat summer school and the scorching sun gave us an excuse to lie under the slow fan all day and read Amar Chitra Kathas. I missed Mrs. Coulter and Michelle. Mrs. Coulter sent two letters, the second one of which said there was a change in her plan. She was going to be teaching at Flagg Street School the next year and she didn’t say why, at least I don’t remember. As the monsoon rains pounded the pavements of city streets in India, I nervously waited to go back. Why was she leaving? Who could possibly replace her?
Once I got back, things were different. Michelle and I didn’t play Barbies anymore; apparently, sixth graders found Barbie to “so fifth grade”. Some friends had moved, others were in different classes. All divided, Mrs. Coulter gone, Elm Park seemed dark and cold. No one liked her replacement, and it didn’t really matter how nice she was, I would have missed Mrs. Coulter just as much. Fifth grade was just different, and we were forlorn; for all the dreams we had with her didn’t exist anymore. She did keep in touch for the first half of the school year. After the holidays, there was little word from her.
In May of 1988, Memorial Day Weekend, Michelle called me. She had heard Mrs. Coulter had cancer of the liver. She had just been diagnosed. I hung up the phone and sat down, I didn’t even know what cancer was. I had heard of it before, but what did it mean? My father said he would take me to the hospital on Monday morning to visit her.
“She’ll be ok, right Dad?” I asked as he was leaving the room.
“I hope so, Meenakshi”, he said quietly.
Early Monday morning, Michelle called me again. Mrs. Coulter had died, because the cancer had spread. I told my mom and she wrapped me in her arms, tightly. The tears began and continued to fall. This was the first person really close to me to die. Her wake was filled with her students, young and old. She wasn’t more than 50 years old. Her love for teaching had consumed so much, yet her body was unable to sustain itself.
Even though I felt I was her favorite, this was a special talent she had। Everyone felt special to her. She had brought to us, through her words, her teachings, a light. A special light, which still continues to grow inside me. Almost 20 years later, I know she helped me feel intelligent, secure, and simply happy. Mrs. Coulter’s spirit still inspires me and will never be forgotten in the soul of my fourth grade heart.
