do their homework. If they wanted to act out, that was fine with her, as
long as they didn't hurt anyone else.
Mom was all the time hugging her students and letting them know how
wonderful and special she thought they were. She'd tell the Mexican kids
never to let anyone say they weren't as good as white kids. She'd tell the
Navaho and Apache kids they should be proud of their noble Indian
heritage. Students who were considered problem kids or mentally slow
started doing well. Some followed Mom around like stray dogs.
Even though her students liked her, Mom hated teaching. She had to
leave Maureen, who was not yet two, with a woman whose drug-dealer
husband was serving time in the state prison. But what really bothered
Mom was that her mother had been a teacher and had pushed Mom into
getting a teaching degree so she would have a job to fall back on just in
case her dreams of becoming an artist didn't pan out. Mom felt Grandma
Smith had lacked faith in her artistic talent, and by becoming a teacher
now, she was acknowledging that her mother had been right all along. At
night she sulked and muttered under her breath. In the morning she slept
late and pretended to be sick. It was up to Lori, Brian, and me to get her
out of bed and see to it that she was dressed and at school on time.
"I'm a grown woman now," Mom said almost every morning. "Why can't
I do what I want to do?"
"Teaching is rewarding and fun," Lori said. "You'll grow to like it."
Part of the problem was that the other teachers and the principal, Miss
Beatty, thought Mom was a terrible teacher. They'd stick their heads into
her classroom and see the students playing tag and throwing erasers
while Mom was up front, spinning like a top and letting pieces of chalk
fly from her hands to demonstrate centrifugal force.
Miss Beatty, who wore her glasses on a chain around her neck and had