Meg Medina

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

ALL THAT MRS. ZUCKERMAN TAUGHT ME

Every school has a Mrs. Zuckerman.

She’s the teacher whom everyone dreams of having because there’s light in her eyes and a sense of fun.

Mrs. Zuckerman taught the Talented and Gifted class, the smartest third-grade class at P.S. 22, where I went to elementary school. Everyone knew that was the class for minigeniuses, which made me feel a little hopeless at the end of second grade. I still used my fingers to do addition. Mrs. Kreitman, my teacher, had repeatedly pointed out my sloppy work habits in the comments section of my report card every quarter, too. I ate holes in my papers with my erasures, and my worksheets were always stained and crumpled. And, of course, there was my lingering fascination with Elmer’s glue. I’d make little blobs inside my desk and play with them as they dried into gooey lumps.

What hope, then, did I have to be moved into Mrs. Zuckerman’s group? Only the very best students were destined for that class, and I suspected that they had better work habits than mine. They remembered their homework and brought in elaborate projects. They certainly knew their number facts. My best skill was getting lost in a book or making up stories. Mrs. Kreitman had sometimes even called it daydreaming or lying.

Imagine my shock, then, when I peeked at my final report card and found Mrs. Zuckerman’s name and room number. Was this a mistake? A joke? Even my mother was speechless over the miracle, but she didn’t argue.

Naturally, I fell in love with Mrs. Zuckerman the way everyone always did. She was cheerful when we arrived each morning, and almost never raised her voice when we got too rambunctious. Instead, she quieted us with her own contagious stillness. She always assigned us interesting projects, too, especially in writing, my favorite. It was Mrs. Zuckerman, in fact, who wrote the words “Margaret, you are a wonderful writer” across the top of my first poem. It was the first time I could remember that a teacher said I was good at anything. I beamed inside and rewrote my final copy with more care than I had ever written anything else before. All these years later, when I look back to what made me love writing, I think it was Mrs. Zuckerman’s approval and praise.

But Mrs. Zuckerman also taught me something even more important than having faith in my writing, and it happened on the heels of what I was sure was a disaster.

As the winter holiday break approached that year, all of the students buzzed about the wonderful things they would bring Mrs. Zuckerman as a present. I already had the perfect plan. Someone as spectacular as Mrs. Zuckerman deserved a truly spectacular gift. My choice was obvious. I would buy her a Chia Pet. To me, that pottery gift seemed magical. It was shaped like a sheep; you would water it, and within days the seeds inside would sprout to look like lamb’s wool. Pointless? Maybe. But this was the era of mood rings and pet rocks, too.

Unfortunately, my mother had other ideas. In fairness, I have to admit that money was very limited in our family. My mother earned minimum wage, there were three mouths to feed, and the rent would soon be due. But the bigger problem was my mother’s eccentricity, which made a scary companion to her tightwad tendencies. She was criminally practical, too. Every purchase she made had to be useful. In other words, she could be counted on to give you pencils and underwear as Christmas gifts.

Anyway, she hated my idea.

A hunk of pottery that grew grass seedlings to imitate fur? Who on earth would want such a thing, she said. Instead, Mami handed me the gift that she had carefully selected.

It was a pair of pantyhose that she had purchased at the supermarket for a dollar.

I begged my mother to see it my way, but it was no use. I was destined to die of shame. While my friends would shower Mrs. Zuckerman with impressive gifts, I would hand over a woman’s personal undergarments. The only worse gift might have been a bra.

I walked to school that day, heavyhearted, and handed over the gift at the very last moment. Somehow that odd gift made me feel like an especially poor kid and, worse, a weird one. I was positive that no American family would ever stoop to give pantyhose as a present.

Thankfully, Mrs. Zuckerman chose not to open any of the gifts that day. When she hugged us each good-bye, she promised to do so over vacation.

When I got back to school in January, there were small white envelopes on our desks. My name was written in her beautiful script on the outside.

Dear Margaret,

Thank you so much for the lovely and practical gift. I will get plenty of use from the hosiery. You were so thoughtful to think of me.

Your friend,
Mrs. Zuckerman

There are so many ways that adults can build up children. We can teach them and put stars on their papers. We can laugh at their jokes. We can help them when they struggle with friends. Mrs. Zuckerman did all of those things, of course. But with that simple acknowledgment of my strange gift, she did something else. She erased all of my shame and gave me a living example of the power of extending even the simplest kindness.