Remembering Miss Reap

Miss Reap seemed very tall to me. With her black bouffant hairdo and her eyebrows penciled in arches of permanent surprise over her eyes, she looked like an exclamation point. She always dressed smartly in bold colors and pantsuits. I remember, in particular, black polyester slacks and a suit jacket with a flowered blouse beneath, its large red blooms accentuating her dark hair and pale skin. There's a box in my bedroom that contains mementos of lives past and included in this little collection are several reports I wrote for Miss Reap in my fifth grade year. There is one on Grand Tetons National Park, Mankind and His Origins, Marie Curie, Robert Frost and an autobiography. I wrote book reports for that class that accompanied many a diorama, but I have no artifacts of those efforts. In addition, I wrote short stories in that class, winning the St. Patrick's Day story contest with my short work entitled, "A Leprechaun in Dublin." I still have the folded card made from yellow construction paper that says "Happy St. Patrick's Day! First Prize, Leprechaun Story, Tricia Annese" on its cover and "Congratulations" written in Miss Reap's ladylike handwriting right on the inside, right above the blank space where she had taped four quarters, evenly spaced, as my prize.
When I look over this writing, I am surprised by its grammatical complexity and strong sense of voice. Describing Robert Frost's childhood, I write: "His mother, who loved poetry and sometimes recited it to Robert and his sister, was a schoolteacher."

At first glance, I am sure that I must have copied this work from another source. I remember very clearly the story (which I think may be an academic myth now that I'm older) of the student in Miss Reap’s graduate class who went to the library, selected a book on his assigned topic and copied it word for word before submitting the paper he wrote AS HIS OWN! The gasps in the classroom were audible. The audacity of someone stealing the work- the THOUGHTS-- of another! Outrageous! Of course, the kicker, the punchline to the story was that the book that the writer had copied had been written by the professor himself. Naturally, he immediately recognized the student's misappropriation of his ideas and failed him. Indeed, in that day and age, the student was actually subject to disciplinary consequences and it was all "very embarrassing" according to Miss Reap. The act of copying distressed Miss Reap so deeply that she could do little but shake her head in profound disappointment at the temerity of a man who could steal the words of another. Miss Reap detested plagiarism and I loved Miss Reap, so I cannot imagine I would have even attempted to copy from a book or an encylclopedia. And when I look at my original writing about the leprechaun, my ability to use the appositive phrase bears itself out: "One, whose name was Johnnie Gallagher, was yelling that he had played the trick so he might as well get the [whiskey]."

In addition to a relatively accurate adherence to conventions, I wrote with a close attention to detail and extensive vocabulary (for a fifth grader): "The house was made of brick, with a huge bay window at the front and three steps that led up to the tall door that loomed above the large porch and tiny bushes that had been planted (so I was told) just last year. There was an old roughly sanded wooden table along with three wooden chairs that set on off-white cobblestone floor."

I must have had a very clear idea of what I was seeing in my mind's eye for even reading this so many years later (almost thirty-- eek!) I am struck by the specificity o the image and how it leaps to my mind as I read.

I'm particularly struck by the sense of voice in my work. In the autobiography, I write about my friend, Sharon Kimball: "She has a few good ideas, but she's undecided. For example: She can't make up her mind whether she likes this girl, Michele, or not which I think is funny. Our favorite game to play together is 'island.' We make a fort and gather berries for food and stuff. It's fun. But the bad side of Sharon is, she thinks she's so big because she's in Middle School. She's not older than me. She was just put into school earlier." And then I mention Sheila:"The bad part about Sheila is, when something goes wrong, she pouts and won't talk to anybody. I mean, I get mad, but it stays for about five minutes, then leaves."

My person is so clearly expressed on the page—and with such assurance too! I wonder where that originated? I read like crazy as a kid, completing books like Gone With the Wind and Little Women in fifth grade (It was, after all, the year that I won the reading contest Miss Reap sponsored. For one month we were to document all of the time we spent reading and at the end of the month, the winner would receive a prize. I dutifully logged my hours and in the end, I won the prize for the most hours read: 50!), so I must have internalized some of those narrative voices—must have been able to make the connection to other voices and somehow integrate their various styles into my understanding of my own writing. I remember that writing just felt, to me anyway, like talking on the page. And goodness knows, I liked to talk (still do, if you cannot already tell!). What is interesting to me as a teacher of writing is how often the students I teach are real talkers, but when it comes to getting anything down on paper, they completely freeze. I tell them all the time, “Write as you would speak,” and while this is not a panacea for all of my students, it is a skill that, were they able to apply it, would serve them well.

I remember fifth grade with a deep fondness. Prior to that year I wrote, but it was Miss Reap and her expectation that we use writing as a means of expressing and processing what we knew, who made me into a confident writer. By demanding quality work from me, by recognizing my efforts as a reader and writer, by rewarding them with praise and prizes, she reinforced my surety as a writer and as a thinker. Where Mrs. Stein, my fourth grade teacher, rolled her eyes at my creative attempts, finding them to be self-involved or obnoxious, Ms. Reap recognized and celebrated my voice. The joy of writing and researching, of exploring my own life and the lives of others in print, remain as some of my most pleasant memories of school. As I prepare my students for the academic demands that lie ahead of them, Miss Reap's figure still leaps to mind when I teach. I only hope that I am as adept as she was at being able to convey to my students the joys inherent in discovering the world through the pages of the book and being able to express that understanding—indeed, being able to embellish and celebrate it and make it my own—through writing.