I was seventeen when I first saw Mr. Alexander. He was just another new teacher in high school that September. Nothing about him stood out. His hair was brown, his face was plain, and his suit was dark and drab. He was to teach drama class. I wasn't particularly interested in drama, but I thought it would be an easy way to gain some credits, and perhaps it would help me overcome my excruciating shyness.

  This was Mr. Alexander's first year to teach in Canada. He had a very pronounced Australian accent.  At the beginning of the term,  many students claimed that they couldn't understand him, although I had no problem at all. 

From that very first day, he failed to gain the respect of the students. Over the next few weeks, his class became a thing to dread, for me. The students laughed, talked, played catch with paper balls, and generally made Mr. Alexander's life miserable.  Mine too - I was here to learn, not to waste time. I'd found that I liked drama, but I resented the way the interruptions in teaching interfered with my learning.  I began to fantasize what it would be like, if Mr. Alexander was my own, personal tutor.  "Then I'd be able to learn!" I thought.

Mr. Alexander was a good teacher, despite his problems with class discipline. He had such passion for his subject. I began to think my first impressions of him had been wrong.  How could I have thought of him as 'plain'? I found that the coursework came alive for me, when he read from the plays we studied. 

I participated in the class discussions,  and in the plays, even though in most of my other classes, I tended to remain quiet. 
It annoyed me that Mr. Alexander rarely called me by my name.  He seemed to forget what my name was, and he called me anything and everything else - "Alice" "Mary" "Chris" "Heather" "Shirley" "Hazel" "Ann" "Helen" and the list went on.

 I realized eventually that I had developed a childish crush on my teacher! Far more mature for my years than most of my friends and classmates, I rarely had been attracted to the boys in my classes, but this was unacceptable! I was annoyed with myself for allowing it to happen.   My older sister had studied psychology at university, and I'd read many of her textbooks, so I knew that what I was feeling was a normal part of growing up, and would eventually fade away. "But how immature and childish!"  I thought. "You will grow out of it," I told myself sternly.

One afternoon, when the drama class had been particularly unruly, I left the classroom with a new thought in mind. I had written a little poem about overcoming obstacles and problems.  Oh, I didn't think of it as a great work of art, but perhaps it would give Mr. Alexander some encouragement as a teacher. Over the next couple of days, I struggled with myself, as I wondered if I should give him a copy of the poem. Somehow, it seemed that it was an important thing to do. Finally, I made up my mind. The next day, after class, I waited until the rest of the students had left the room. There was a few minutes respite, until the next class. 

"Did you write this?" asked Mr. Alexander, after I'd handed him the paper, and he'd read it.
"Yes," I answered.
"Interesting, the part about the mountain," he said. "There's a rock in Australia, called Ayer's Rock, which is revered by the aboriginals - they believe it is related to the 'dreamtime'." 
We chatted a bit more.  
Then, Mr. Alexander said, "Well, thank you for the poem...Today's my birthday, by the way."
"Happy birthday!" I smiled at him, and went on to my next class, feeling elated and pleased at what I had done - I had overcome my shyness, and that silly crush, and done a good deed, all at the same time.

If you think I should explore my feelings for Mr. Alexander further, choose this link.

If you think it's a bad idea, click next for the second story.

copyright 2002 Trish S.