Published in the Houston Chronicle Newspaper 12/12/99

 Thank you Mrs. Rice

         Sometimes we parents take our children’s teachers for granted.  Teachers who touch our children’s lives and leave a legacy of good.  One early fall afternoon my daughter Beth came running into the house shouting,  “Mom! Mrs. Rice told us to raise our hands if we had a green or red leotard and she said that if we had one we could be in the Christmas program and I told her I had a green one! Mom! What’s a leotard!”  Beth didn’t know what a leotard was because Beth didn’t own a leotard.  Just starting first grade, Beth raised her hand for everything (which is how I became a homeroom mother).

Beth’s chance to be in the Christmas program, with or without a leotard, surprised me.  Usually the students who could read easily, sit quietly, and pay attention willingly were selected for the starring roles in special school programs.  Beth couldn’t read her name.  She wiggled more than sat and talked more than listened.  She was an average first grader with an attention span of one minute…tops.  

I was not new to Yeager Elementary School.  Beth had an older brother who was now in 4^th grade there, but he had never had Mrs. Rice for a teacher.  I had heard about Mrs. Rice’s special power to teach a squirmy, chatty, inattentive child to read.  I didn’t know about Mrs. Rice’s sense of fairness. With her simple question about leotards, Mrs. Rice offered everyone in her classroom the opportunity to star in the Christmas program.  And so, I happily searched the stores and finally found, on a hot September day, a Christmas-green leotard, children’s size 6.       

In October Beth raced home with her lines for the play.  She had the longest speaking part in the script, complete with hand motions to go along with the words.  Mrs. Rice had chosen Beth to be the announcer.  I suspected that Beth became announcer because she raised her hand first…again.   Beth’s part called for her to introduce the play by standing alone on the curtained stage and welcoming everyone to the “Elf Factory.”  She was too young to worry about the “standing alone” part, I was old enough to worry for both of us.

For two months Beth practiced the Elf Factory introduction.  She repeated her lines to an attentive Grandma, a sleeping Dalmatian, and an annoyed brother.  She performed at every opportunity, even while tending her goal at a boring soccer game.  Beth was excited to be in the Christmas play.  I was surprised and pleased to see her dedication to practice.  

            The night of the Christmas program Beth put on her green tights, green leotard and round white collar with big red and green circles along the edge. We hurried to the school auditorium where Mrs. Rice handed Beth her elf hat, a white pointy cone with a self-made pom-pom dangling from the end.  I left Beth back stage with Mrs. Rice and went to find my son and husband in the audience.  Hopefully they had found “good seats”.  I sat fidgeting on my gray metal chair, third row center (good seats), waiting for the play to start.  Suddenly, Beth walked out from around the orange theater curtain and stood on the empty stage.   The crowd of parents, grandparents, and siblings grew quiet as all eyes turned towards Beth.  My little green elf stood there, arms at her sides, her thick blonde hair squirting out at right angles from under her homemade hat.

Beth lifted her head to the audience, and in a voice loud enough to reach the far corners of the cafeteria, she called out,  “Welcome to the Elf Factory.  Put your finger aside of your nose (finger strategically placed), give your head a nod (more body motion) and come along with me (a beckoning wave of the arm) to the land of make-believe.”

As Beth introduced the play, I silently mouthed the words along with her.  The rest of that evening remains a blur.  I can’t remember what happened after my little elf braved the loneliness of the big school stage and announced the holiday play.

Beth is now an accomplished twenty-four year old college graduate.  I have a house full of photographs commemorating her many successes and awards.  But, one of my most cherished possessions is still the two-by-three inch framed photograph on my desk.  There, forever, stands my brave little elf in her green leotard beckoning the audience to the land of make-believe.  I will always remember Beth standing confident, proud, and alone on that big stage.

Mrs. Rice retired not long ago.  She doesn’t know how much I appreciated her faith in my daughter.  And so, thank you Mrs. Rice for planting the seed of self-confidence in my daughter’s head while she was still young enough to believe.  And to all the teachers of our children, who educate with excellence and fairness, from all the parents who take your special powers for granted…thank you.