December 7th, Pearl Harbor Day

As ironic as it may seem, this post has little to do with Pearl Harbor Day, not that I mean to belittle the day, or men and women who died. But Pearl Harbor Day reminds me of the 7th grade, and not for the obvious traumatic and war-like reasons that you might infer.

Seventh grade was the beginning of middle school in the district in which I grew up and the beginning of middle school ranks high in my list of worst years of my life, with one grand exception: Mrs. Weeks.

Seventh grade found me fairly friendless, often abused by schoolmates, heinously allergic to some unidentifiable plant that grew on the school grounds that sent my sinuses on a rampage (not helpful with the popularity issue), and generally miserable within my own little sphere of existence. Four-eyed, metal-toothed, and painfully insecure. It wasn’t too many years later that I discovered that pretty much everybody felt that way at the time (minus the sneezing) and that the misery had at least as much to do with the circumstances of change going on inside our bodies than those without. Puberty sucks. But one of my shelters was my world history class.

I’ve never been particularly good at history. I have a tendency to transpose numbers which does little to aid me on tests that rely heavily on dates, and the finer points of wars and battles have never held my interest. But the moment I walked into my 7th grade history classroom, I felt instantly comfortable in a way that had no association with the rest of the school grounds for me, and the minute my teacher stood up and started talking, I knew I was home. I had already taken the front and center seat in the class, and this was a time in my life when front and center anywhere was the last place I wanted to be.

Mrs. Weeks had this mom-like quality about her that made me feel like maybe I could be as safe at school as I was at home. She was kind and fair and a good teacher, something our society seems to place little value in for all its monumental importance. Within a few weeks, she transferred me out of the class I was in, rearranging my schedule with the office so I was in a different section that I would fit better in. She said at the time that this was because I was a good student and I would do better in a period with other more serious students. What she did was transfer me out of a class full of bullies and into a more peaceful place; I can’t be certain but I think it’s likely that she grasped that better than I did.

For a year, I had more interest in history than I ever would in my life. I was determined to do well for a teacher that I liked so much. I still remember details of Viking explorations and medieval politics that I have had little reason to recall in the intervening years but which will always be with me nonetheless. She prodded me into leadership roles and I discovered much to my shock, that I could do alright in them. That year we had a big history test scheduled on December 7th and though it was not particularly relevant to the test topic, Mrs. Weeks took the time to explain to us what Pearl Harbor Day was and why we remember it every year. And in the subsequent weeks, every time she mentioned something that would likely appear on that test, which was daily, Mrs. Weeks would preface it with, “And when you take your test on December 7th, Pearl Harbor Day,....” We were all saying it with her in unison by the week before the test – shouting it really – and the math class on the other side of the thin walls would answer back by chanting algebra equations at us.

In my eighth grade year, I dropped an elective period. While other kids were taking art or woodshop, I was happily grading papers in the shelter of Mrs. Weeks classroom.
I used to write to Mrs. Weeks in the years after I left middle school. I lost touch with her after she retired. I know she moved and that she went back to using her maiden name at some point. I don’t know where she is anymore. I fervently hope she is well and I know that even if she’s not giving history tests to twelve-year-olds anymore, that she can’t help but teach everyone that she meets, simply by example, how to be kind.

Today, I passed a newsstand while running busy Monday errands. On my way between the grocery store and the auto-repair shop, the headlining story of the local paper caught my eye. It was a reprint of the war story from 68 years ago, and as I looked over the cover what I heard in my head was, “And when you take your test on December 7th, Pearl Harbor Day...”

Mrs. Weeks, wherever you are, know that I will never forget December 7th, and I will never forget you. I can hardly think that I’m alone in that amongst your students.