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"Hey Shakespeare!" She'd holler down the crowded hallway. "Hey Ziggy!" I'd shout back, knowing who it was without even turning around.
She was strong, passionate, strict, and full of life. She was my mentor, my teacher, and my friend. She was very tall and somewhat thin; soft curls of light brown hair, mixed with a bit of silver, surrounded her strong face; bright hazel eyes that could see through to your soul; and a presence about her that seemed to command the very air she breathed. She was Mrs. Nancy Zigenhorn, my English teacher at Truman High School from 1978 to 1981. She taught Creative Writing, Shakespeare, Advanced College Prep English 1 & 2 (ACP), and Journalism.
She was Mrs. Zigenhorn to everyone else, but affectionately known as just Ziggy to me. She was the hardest teacher I ever had, demanding the best that we had to give. She made us work for our grades; never giving in just because. She was a teacher that was highly regarded and feared by most of the seniors in our class of almost a thousand kids. Her classes were only taken if the students were strong enough to handle what she dished out.
Besides being a teacher for several of my classes throughout high school, she was also my faculty advisor for the literary magazine in which I was the editor my senior year. Because of this, we spent many evenings together after school working on what would go into the magazine and how it would be presented. We had to set up the contests for students to enter their writings and drawings, and then had to judge them. Maybe this is what brought us a closer together; but whatever it was, we had a great relationship; one based on mutual respect.
Her classes were not the easiest I took, and she seemed to expect more out of me than most of the other students. Why? I'm not really sure, other than the fact that I was the editor of the magazine or maybe because she knew I could do the work. I really don't know. She pushed me to do the best I could and would always give me constructive criticism in everything I did.
I remember that first day of ACP with her. It was only for seniors. "Hi Shakespeare. How are you today?" she greeted me in the familiar way. "Hey Ziggy. Looks like you and I are stuck together for another semester." I began to laugh and asked, "How do you put up with me?" "I don't know. But we manage, don't we?" she answered, with that smile I understood.
She taught us more than just English in that class. She taught us respect for one another; study skills for college, and how to succeed in anything we would attempt to do. She taught us how to be better human beings.
"Good morning students," she began. "Its a great day outside and a great day to start learning. I know that each of you had to pass a test to take this class, but you will have to prove to me that you belong in here. I will work you harder than any other class you have. You will come prepared every day with the assignments that I give you. You will take an active participation in my class. Are there any questions?"
Of course there were no questions. We all knew what Ziggy was like; after all, thats why we were in her class. I had many of these students in the other subjects that she taught and we knew we would learn so much from her. Out of this, would come a renewed regard for both writing and for her.
As the semester went on, many assignments were thrown at us. Some of them were easy, but most of them were quite difficult. If you were only going to take ACP1, then your essay was due on December 18th. I decided right then and there that I was not going to hand in a paper on my birthday, and signed up to take ACP2.
My essay that semester was titled, "New Horizons: Alternatives to Institutionalizing the Handicapped." I did a lot of in-depth research on this and had a personal reason for why I picked it. I had been working with the mentally and physically handicapped for many years at summer camps and other venues, and I wanted to write a paper that would mean something. I knew that this paper would require a lot of work and that she would expect only my best. I spent extra time in the library and did some outside research as well. I visited several institutions and talked to both the workers and patients. I learned a lot during my research and ended up getting a job at the Harry S. Truman Neurological Center in Lees Summit, working with mentally and physically handicapped patients.
As the time came to turn in our first draft, I wondered what Ziggy would think of my writing. She knew what my creative writing was like, but this was different. I had to back this up with facts not just fancy words. I was very proud of the work I did and was certain that she would automatically think it was as great as I did. Boy was I in for a rude awakening!
She reviewed it very critically and it came as quite a blow when I received it back, covered in red ink. I wondered then if I could ever be a writer or teach other students to write. My ego was dropped several levels that day.
I waited after class to speak with her, until all of the other students had left. I wasn't really sure on how to approach her, but if she had taught me one thing in her class, it was honesty and respect. So I took those thoughts into consideration as I began to speak. "I understand most of the marks on my paper, but it seems that you judged my paper much more harshly than the other students. I spent a lot of time on this, putting many hours of research into it. Why are you so hard on me? Why do you expect me to be so perfect and not the other students?"
She answered, very calmly, looking me straight in the eyes. "Shakespeare, you have a special talent for writing and for seeing things from such a different point of view. I honestly believe that you will be teaching this class in the future. I have told you this over and over and I expect nothing but your best. You know you have so much potential and I just want to bring that out in you. That is why I am more critical with your work." She continued, in a very loving manner, "Most of the other students in this class dont really care what I think about their work. Theyre here to get a good grade and say that they've taken an advanced class for English. No one else has the passion you do for this and that is the reason I expect so much more from you. Dont be so hard on yourself. Step back; take another look at your paper, and then go with your feelings. I know that you will come up with an essay that will be worthy of the high marks that it deserves." She smiled and told me she had to leave.
After we finished our conversation, I left the room with a greater understanding and admiration for her. She had taken the time to tell me what was on her heart and why she felt I could go so far in my future. I don't think she ever knew what an impact she had on my life after that day. I followed her words of wisdom and took a different look at that paper--one from the eyes of a maturing writer and I received the high marks that I wanted.
In May 1981, after classes had finally come to a close for the seniors, Ziggy came to my graduation and handed me a box that was wrapped in elaborate gold paper with a small card on top. I opened the card and read the message inside. The tears began to flow down my cheeks as I removed the bow and undid the beautiful paper. Within its boundaries, I found a leather-bound edition of the Complete Works of Shakespeare. Inside the front cover was the following inscription: "To Shakespeare: A student, writer, friend and teacher. May you look to the stars and find the one that holds your dreams. Good luck in the future and I look forward to the day that I see you teaching my class. Love always, Ziggy."
Mrs. Nancy Zigenhorn was my friend, my teacher and my mentor. She is the reason I have decided to pursue a career as a writer. I recently visited my high school and saw her. I told her that I was writing a paper about our relationship that we shared in high school, and she had no idea that she had made such an impact on my life and my career choice.
I hope that in the future that I can have the same impact on persons life that she has had on mine.
I can still hear our voices, trailing down a crowded hallway ... "Hey Shakespeare!" "Hey Ziggy!" |
