In the Footsteps of Mrs. Simms

Virginia B. Ward
James Island High School
Charleston, SC

"Virginia, I am so proud of you." Those were the first words she said to me. Her greeting suddenly made me feel more like the school girl I was in her classes in the middle 60s, not the woman I am now as a Teacher-in-Residence for the SC Center for Teacher Recruitment.

In 1965, I was one of the small, quiet fifteen-year-olds who sat in the back of Mrs. Simms' class. She had five English classes of thirty-five students each, yet I vividly remember that individual attention she gave each of us. One day she read my essay—my essay—to each of her classes and said that it served as a model of excellent writing. What a compliment to come from a demanding teacher who challenged her students more than they thought they could endure! I guess that was the day I decided to be an English teacher. I wanted to teach American literature with the love and knowledge that Mrs. Simms had for the subject. Yes, I wanted to grow up and be like Mrs. Simms, but she was "bigger than life." Fill that woman's shoes? Never.

She began the trek down her short sidewalk, taking careful, slow steps all the way. Those same legs had stood untold hours day after day, year after year, on concrete floors as she taught her classes. In the 1960s, she had not taken such cautious little steps, nor had she seemed slightly unsteady on her feet. She had stood through the assassination of a President, and through un-air conditioned classes in 100-degree heat, and through racial riots that tore our community apart during integration, and through the hippies' generation of drug experimentation and love beads, and on into the 1980s. She had been statuesque as my teacher, but now she was a little rounded in her shoulders.

When she seated herself in the back seat of my van, I hesitated, not knowing if I would seem patronizing if I reached for the seat belt and strapped her safely in. But I know how a simple routine act can become a fumbling task in unfamiliar territory. Besides, I wanted deep in my heart to do something that was protective and caring, no matter how insignificant. So I strapped her in myself, mumbling something about these belts are all so different, but silently remembering how she seemed to have cared for me in small but ever so meaningful ways years ago.

As we drove to the banquet, she and my mother discussed health concerns. As they talked, I remembered going to Mrs. Simms' class during school lunch periods where she ate her sandwich and drank her orange juice and at the same time labored over stacks of students' papers. She had eaten right—had never abused her body with even caffeine or sugar—but time had made her ever so delicate.

We arrived at the country club where the teachers' banquet was being held. I pulled up in the horseshoe shaped driveway and assisted Mrs. Simms and my mother out of the van. They took the elevator to the second floor while I went to park my vehicle.

We had a great dinner during which we initiated new DKG members, installed officers, and talked. You know how teachers like to talk. At the close of the evening, the president stood and said, "We would like for Doris Simms to take the arrangement of roses from the head table. It is our gift to her because we are so glad that she was able to join us tonight."

Graciously, Mrs. Simms stood to thank the president for the flowers and then added, "I had not thought I was going to be able to come tonight until about 4:00 this afternoon. Then I decided that I was going to get myself together and come."

"Get herself together?" I pondered silently. She had always been together, as my teacher and as my fellow faculty member when I returned to my high school alma mater in 1972 to teach American literature. She was still my mentor then. Whenever I was uncertain or frustrated as a beginning teacher, I went to Mrs. Simms to get her advice. She spoke with disarming honesty tempered with compassion and the wisdom of experience.

After bidding the other ladies good night, my mother and Mrs. Simms rode down the elevator while I went down the stairs and out to get my van. I carried her roses for her. On the way home, she told us about several great books that she had read recently and all about their authors. Her body might have been failing her, but that mind was more brilliant than ever.

In the car, I told Mrs. Simms about my giving a speech to about 150 people earlier in the week, and then I thanked her for the public speaking course she had so diligently taught me when I had enrolled for her speech class my senior year. I had been the painfully shy one that Mrs. Simms had coaxed out of her seat and up in front of her peers to express what she thought, and say what she had researched, and perform what she had created. In many way, Mrs. Simms is why I am thinking and researching and creating to this day.

I walked up to her house and stepped inside. In all the years I had known her, I had crossed that threshold only once—the day her husband had suddenly died, and I had gone to see her. Now inside her home a second time, I wanted to look around and study her belongings, yet I wanted to exhibit the manners that she always had. She was such a private lady, but I yearned to know more of the personal side of her. On tables and walls were pictures of children—her own and their own. I had known Mrs. Simms had three grown daughters, but I saw now that she had been someone's beloved wife who had borne three children, changed diapers, nursed them through their illnesses, cleaned her house, cooked meals for her family.

I placed the roses on the table and turned to the dear, gray-haired lady in her living room. I said, "I want you to promise me something."

Her eyes twinkled with curiosity. "What?" she asked.

"I want you to call me if ever I can do anything for you." I guess I just wanted to give back to one who has given so much to me. She smiled.

As I slipped out of her front door and into the night, I heard her call my name. "Virginia," she began. I paused and turned back to face her. She stood in her foyer where the light created a halo effect about her. and then she said it again, "I'm so very proud of you." Like the adolescent in her class almost thirty years ago, I basked in her praise, wishing somehow I could be as great as she is.