Bouncy blonde hair, an open heart and a smile big enough to cheer up any day. My fifth and sixth grade math teacher, Mrs. French, always knew when something was up and helped you in a snap. Fifth grade was a great year because of her. She was always proud of me if I was soaring above the rest of the class academically, or if I failed horribly. She was always happy.

After having her every day for a year, I knew I needed her as my homeroom teacher because we would get to spend double the time together. After asking and begging to be in her class, I was!

Every morning she welcomed me to class even when I was late ( Which I was 40% of the time!) I’m a very hard-working student so I loved to show her when I went above and beyond because seeing her proud of me made me very happy, whether I showed her my homemade clay sculptures or a well written essay.

Through the last quarter of my sixth grade year, I was struggling a bit- not academically but socially. My best friend wasn’t treating me right, and as soon as I realized that I became less bubbly  because I didn’t know how to deal with it. I tried to still be happy in class, but not like I used to be. Mrs. French picked up on it. Some days she would ask me if everything was okay and I said it was when it truly wasn’t. She noticed that too, and I could feel she was keeping an eye out for me, which I am still grateful for.

The conflict with my “best friend’ grew worse when I decided to stick up for myself. The girl cried, and complained about me as if I had treated her badly. Mrs. French came to me not with an accusatory statement about how I needed to apologize, but with full ears to hear how I felt about the situation. She didn’t force an apology on me like another teacher would. She listened to me and supported me. After talking to the counselor I got my feelings out and it was good for me since I had other friends to lean on. Even though Mrs. French never said it, I believe she understood I felt better after the blow-up.

A month later came my last event with her, sixth grade graduation. Different teachers from each grade read each students best moments, and luckily, Mrs. French was going to read mine. Every practice we had, I was perfectly under control, even giggling with my friends. But on that night, something happened in my heart that I couldn’t have seen coming.

We were standing in the church and I went up to accept my diploma for sixth grade. I heard behind me the words she was saying about me, and was overjoyed. As my whole class from six years gathered on the stage singing Shalom, I looked out into the audience and saw all my  loving teachers, especially Mrs. French, and began to cry. Not a little tear, but full on crying that made it hard to see and difficult to catch my breath. My emotions were pouring because I knew I wouldn’t be in their classes ever again, and the thought of that deeply hurt. The pain was due to the fact that I had spent six joyful years at a school I loved, and I loved my teachers even more.

The next and final day of school had come. I had a blast hanging out with Mrs. French and my friends one last time, which included eating fried chicken and watermelon together. After a couple of hours of talking and playing, my whole class, lead by Mrs. French, headed to the carpool room.

Many of the teachers stood in front of us saying goodbye. Then I heard my name over the walkie-talkie and I knew that meant it was time to leave. I gave all my teachers one last hug, including Mrs. French. I didn’t want to ever let go, but I knew I had to. I did let go and I did say goodbye, but I’ll never forget the joy she brought me everyday and I can never thank her enough for that.

Thank you, Mrs. French