In the fall of 1964 Kingswood Regional High School opened
its doors to
students from five small towns in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire.
I was among them, and although I could have continued to attend the local academy, I chose Kingswood for three reasons: its student activities, its new building, and its mascot. Even though our football team would eventually lose every game that first year, our mascot was a knight in shining armor on a huge white horse that galloped onto the field before each game, at halftime, and after each game. It was an impressive sight.
As a freshman at the local academy in 1963, I had quickly learned that the
happiest and most successful young women were pretty, slim, athletic,
fashionably dressed, and outgoing. I was (and am) none of these. In the
fall of 1964 as a sophomore at Kingswood, I again saw that many of the happy
and successful young women here were also pretty, slim, athletic,
fashionably dressed, and outgoing, but Kingswood was different in an
important way. It offered opportunities for other kinds of happiness and
success as well. My classmates and I learned what it meant to be part of a
community led by a group of teachers who gave generously of their time and
resources so that each of us had a chance to find out who we were and what
we could do.
For someone who was not pretty, slim, athletic, fashionably dressed, or
outgoing, such individual care and concern made a critical difference. For
me, it meant for the first time being encouraged to write, not because I was
especially good at it, but because I wanted to be good at it. My English
teachers encouraged me to write, write, write, and so I did. I was even
given a chance to write a very short patriotic play that some of my
classmates performed. It didn't matter that what I wrote
was--uh--not particularly good (the word "lame" comes to mind); what mattered
was that I kept writing because my teachers kept encouraging me.
I know the same level of encouragement was given others as well, though in
different areas. A heavyset young woman, who elsewhere would have been
excluded from athletics, discovered here that she was a gifted field hockey
goalie. A young man who would have been excluded from drama elsewhere
because of his desperate home situation, was given the lead in a musical,
even though it meant that the directors had to drive him home after every
rehearsal. Before it was considered appropriate, a dyslexic young man was
deliberately placed in a creative writing class, where he got one-on-one help and
encouragement managing his disability.
In my case, the encouragement continued through the college application
process. Despite my growing confidence, I was (and still am) painfully
reserved. I desperately wanted to attend a private women's
college that offers a degree in English Composition. My heart was broken
when the acceptance letter came--I was in, but there was no offer of
financial aid. My father, who had been deaf since childhood, earned less
than $100 a week, and my mother worked fulltime to help support my brother
and me. Though in retrospect it sounds quite reasonable, $3000 a year
tuition was out of the question for my family. At that point my guidance counselor
students from five small towns in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire.
I was among them, and although I could have continued to attend the local academy, I chose Kingswood for three reasons: its student activities, its new building, and its mascot. Even though our football team would eventually lose every game that first year, our mascot was a knight in shining armor on a huge white horse that galloped onto the field before each game, at halftime, and after each game. It was an impressive sight.
As a freshman at the local academy in 1963, I had quickly learned that the
happiest and most successful young women were pretty, slim, athletic,
fashionably dressed, and outgoing. I was (and am) none of these. In the
fall of 1964 as a sophomore at Kingswood, I again saw that many of the happy
and successful young women here were also pretty, slim, athletic,
fashionably dressed, and outgoing, but Kingswood was different in an
important way. It offered opportunities for other kinds of happiness and
success as well. My classmates and I learned what it meant to be part of a
community led by a group of teachers who gave generously of their time and
resources so that each of us had a chance to find out who we were and what
we could do.
For someone who was not pretty, slim, athletic, fashionably dressed, or
outgoing, such individual care and concern made a critical difference. For
me, it meant for the first time being encouraged to write, not because I was
especially good at it, but because I wanted to be good at it. My English
teachers encouraged me to write, write, write, and so I did. I was even
given a chance to write a very short patriotic play that some of my
classmates performed. It didn't matter that what I wrote
was--uh--not particularly good (the word "lame" comes to mind); what mattered
was that I kept writing because my teachers kept encouraging me.
I know the same level of encouragement was given others as well, though in
different areas. A heavyset young woman, who elsewhere would have been
excluded from athletics, discovered here that she was a gifted field hockey
goalie. A young man who would have been excluded from drama elsewhere
because of his desperate home situation, was given the lead in a musical,
even though it meant that the directors had to drive him home after every
rehearsal. Before it was considered appropriate, a dyslexic young man was
deliberately placed in a creative writing class, where he got one-on-one help and
encouragement managing his disability.
In my case, the encouragement continued through the college application
process. Despite my growing confidence, I was (and still am) painfully
reserved. I desperately wanted to attend a private women's
college that offers a degree in English Composition. My heart was broken
when the acceptance letter came--I was in, but there was no offer of
financial aid. My father, who had been deaf since childhood, earned less
than $100 a week, and my mother worked fulltime to help support my brother
and me. Though in retrospect it sounds quite reasonable, $3000 a year
tuition was out of the question for my family. At that point my guidance counselor
called my mother and me to his office, where he telephoned the Director of Admissions. He said firmly, "You have accepted her, but you have offered no scholarship even though
her
family obviously cannot pay the tuition. She REALLY wants to come to your college." The director told him to call again in two weeks. She would see what she could do.
What she did was find for me a scholarship that someone else had turned
down--room, board, and tuition--a free ride for four years. I still had to
work parttime and summers to pay for my books and personal stuff, and I had
to keep my grades up, but I was going to the college of my choice. Three
years later, when I and another young woman, also from a new high
school and also on a full scholarship awarded late, were inducted into the college's honor society after our sophomore year, the college apologized to us for
discriminating against applicants from new high schools. My counselor’s call
had made a huge difference for her as well.
It might be nice to conclude by saying I have lived a charmed
life ever since, but of course that is not the case. After finishing
graduate school, I worked nearly a year as a chambermaid because no
one wanted to hire a young female English teacher with a master's degree and
no experience. When I finally did land my first teaching job, I was
assigned a group of students who had already dispensed with their two
previous English teachers that year and were planning on taking me out as
well. A year later I had to undergo a therapeutic abortion because I
contracted rubella in the first week of my first pregnancy. The next year
my second child was born without a brain and died. When my first marriage
failed several years later, I nearly went bankrupt in the wake of expenses.
For a time I was a single mother living in an unfinished cabin in northern
New Hampshire with no electricity, no running water, and no central heat.
Still, overall I think of myself as lucky, and, for reasons I can trace
directly to the influence of my teachers here, resilient. Surely everyone
must deal with misfortune, and many deal with situations much worse than
mine. At Kingswood my classmates and I had the benefit of many caring
interventions like the ones I have described. Those interventions--in the
form of encouragement, respect, and concern for each individual human
being--served and still serve as models for the way we ought to think about
ourselves and treat each other, and they help us develop independence and
perseverance in the face of adversity.
In the bigger picture, those interventions are the building blocks of human
civilization as well as of individual health and happiness, and they become
increasingly more important as the world grows rapidly smaller. In my case,
the competence and care of the teachers here made me want to be like them.
Their encouragement, respect, and concern made me believe that I was worth
their effort, and I have always been determined not to let them down. As a
result, despite the vicissitudes I have listed, I have been blessed with a
rewarding career as a teacher, an opportunity to continue my education, two
healthy adult children, a happy second marriage, and a now finished and
comfortable home that I helped to build. I thoroughly enjoy living in
northern New Hampshire, and I look forward to the future, no matter what it
brings.
The point is this: we know from research in developmental psychology that
life's most unfortunate circumstances become manageable when just one caring
adult intervenes on behalf of a young person at risk. Although I was
probably not at risk academically, I certainly was at risk in other critical
ways. Contemporary culture puts every young person--no matter what his or
her assets or deficits--at risk one way or another, and parents alone cannot
do the job of raising children resilient enough to manage a future we dare
not predict.
Since 1964 Kingswood's value has been neither its student activities nor its
buildings, but in teachers who help parents raise resilient kids. All
teachers have chances to make a difference for young people who critically
need support—even when that need is expressed as inappropriate behavior,
lack of motivation, or worse. Teachers are the knights galloping around on
the white horses, before, during, and after the game. And they are never so
important as when the team believes, for whatever reason, that it is losing.
family obviously cannot pay the tuition. She REALLY wants to come to your college." The director told him to call again in two weeks. She would see what she could do.
What she did was find for me a scholarship that someone else had turned
down--room, board, and tuition--a free ride for four years. I still had to
work parttime and summers to pay for my books and personal stuff, and I had
to keep my grades up, but I was going to the college of my choice. Three
years later, when I and another young woman, also from a new high
school and also on a full scholarship awarded late, were inducted into the college's honor society after our sophomore year, the college apologized to us for
discriminating against applicants from new high schools. My counselor’s call
had made a huge difference for her as well.
It might be nice to conclude by saying I have lived a charmed
life ever since, but of course that is not the case. After finishing
graduate school, I worked nearly a year as a chambermaid because no
one wanted to hire a young female English teacher with a master's degree and
no experience. When I finally did land my first teaching job, I was
assigned a group of students who had already dispensed with their two
previous English teachers that year and were planning on taking me out as
well. A year later I had to undergo a therapeutic abortion because I
contracted rubella in the first week of my first pregnancy. The next year
my second child was born without a brain and died. When my first marriage
failed several years later, I nearly went bankrupt in the wake of expenses.
For a time I was a single mother living in an unfinished cabin in northern
New Hampshire with no electricity, no running water, and no central heat.
Still, overall I think of myself as lucky, and, for reasons I can trace
directly to the influence of my teachers here, resilient. Surely everyone
must deal with misfortune, and many deal with situations much worse than
mine. At Kingswood my classmates and I had the benefit of many caring
interventions like the ones I have described. Those interventions--in the
form of encouragement, respect, and concern for each individual human
being--served and still serve as models for the way we ought to think about
ourselves and treat each other, and they help us develop independence and
perseverance in the face of adversity.
In the bigger picture, those interventions are the building blocks of human
civilization as well as of individual health and happiness, and they become
increasingly more important as the world grows rapidly smaller. In my case,
the competence and care of the teachers here made me want to be like them.
Their encouragement, respect, and concern made me believe that I was worth
their effort, and I have always been determined not to let them down. As a
result, despite the vicissitudes I have listed, I have been blessed with a
rewarding career as a teacher, an opportunity to continue my education, two
healthy adult children, a happy second marriage, and a now finished and
comfortable home that I helped to build. I thoroughly enjoy living in
northern New Hampshire, and I look forward to the future, no matter what it
brings.
The point is this: we know from research in developmental psychology that
life's most unfortunate circumstances become manageable when just one caring
adult intervenes on behalf of a young person at risk. Although I was
probably not at risk academically, I certainly was at risk in other critical
ways. Contemporary culture puts every young person--no matter what his or
her assets or deficits--at risk one way or another, and parents alone cannot
do the job of raising children resilient enough to manage a future we dare
not predict.
Since 1964 Kingswood's value has been neither its student activities nor its
buildings, but in teachers who help parents raise resilient kids. All
teachers have chances to make a difference for young people who critically
need support—even when that need is expressed as inappropriate behavior,
lack of motivation, or worse. Teachers are the knights galloping around on
the white horses, before, during, and after the game. And they are never so
important as when the team believes, for whatever reason, that it is losing.