The Tracks of Her Tears

My favorite teacher was my 11th grade English teacher — Mrs. Pugh. I’m almost 55, and I still call her by her last name.

One day we shared a moment that changed my life forever. I was 16, second in my class behind Mary Beth Vono (who was SO much smarter than I was), and up until this day, a straight A student.

I had known Mrs. Pugh all of my life because being raised in a small town means you wind up knowing practically everyone who lives there. She and my mom grew up together in that same small town, graduated high school together, never left, and remained friends, so Mrs. Pugh was well-versed in my streak of straight A report cards.

*It’s 1982.* I’m wearing glasses where the lenses are tinted at the top and fade into transparency as you get to the bottom. It’s as if my future were so bright, I had to wear shades all the time.

The bell rings. Mrs. Pugh tells me she needs to see me after class.

While the other students bolt for the door, I take a moment to stack my books. This is my favorite class, so I’m never in a big hurry to leave.

I arrive at her desk and she points to her grade book. Scanning the column of names, I find mine and plot the X/Y coordinates to her fingernail, which is resting under a number in the “Six Weeks Grade” column — 91.3. In my high school that’s a “B,” just two-tenths of a point from the 91.5 average that she requires for rounding up — to a 92 in this case. I realize I’m only two-tenths of a point from an “A.”

“Do you see that?”

“Yes ma’am.”

I run my fingers through my hair. I can’t believe it.

“Do you know how badly I want to give you two-tenths of a point and round that up to an “A” for you? But I can’t. I just can’t.”

On that last “I just can’t,” her voice breaks.

I look up from the grade book. Tears are welling in her eyes and spilling down her face, making tiny tracks as they do, just like the Smokey Robinson song. Mrs. Pugh seems to be taking this extremely hard for some reason. Then it hits me.

She loves me. She REALLY loves me, and that’s the only thing that’s important now. The “B” doesn’t even matter anymore, or how close I had come to remaining a straight A student.

“It’s OK, Mrs. Pugh.”

That’s all I come up with. Nothing to express how much she means to me. Not even a thank you.

“It’s OK.”

“But I’m breaking your streak!” And the tracks of those tears, which are much heavier now, become a little wider and more defined. While I don’t hear a deep, booming voice instructing me to take off my shoes, I know I’m standing on holy ground now, where the lessons learned are sacred and lives are forever changed as a result.

“No, I’m breaking my streak.” After that, I’m at a loss for words, so I stand there awkwardly for what seems like a very long time, and then leave for my next class.

*It’s 1983.* I chose Journalism as an elective my senior year because Mrs. Pugh taught the class. She chose me as the editor of our high school newspaper. It was a REAL newspaper too, complete with a masthead, pictures, printed ads that we sold, and ink that stained the pads of your fingers. It even smelled like a real newspaper. That’s when, and where, my love of writing was born.

*It’s 2021.* Here’s what I know now. All the book-learning in the world doesn’t amount to a hill of beans when compared to the lessons contained in a treasured memory — a memory filled with images of tear-stained make-up — of a teacher showing you and telling you how much you matter and how much you’re loved.

While on the subject of book learning, today I can diagram a sentence, tell you what a gerund is, and explain why pronouns need proper antecedents when speaking and writing — all because of Mrs. Pugh.

That one B continues to fill me with more pride than all of those A’s combined because a teacher loved me enough to instill a very important lesson in me by not changing it.

Many tears have been shed over boys who didn’t measure up. That day Mrs. Pugh shed some tears because I did measure up. I’ve lived my life based on that principle ever since — that people who shed any tears over me will do so for the right reasons, and not the wrong ones.

Sometimes it takes 39 years to find the right words to say. I didn’t have the right words then, but I have them now.

No fancy sentences or Steinbeck-like prose. Just simple words, which say a lot.

Because they come from the heart.

Because they’re true.

And because the holy ground nourished by Mrs. Pugh’s tears is still dotted with my footprints.

I love you, Mrs. Pugh. Thank you, for everything.