It was during my first class of the first day of my freshman year of high school that I was introduced to Mr. Shrump (or El Señor Eshrumpio as he called himself). I had heard he was a good Spanish teacher, but as I sat in his classroom on that first day, I was in for a shock. Mr. Shrump did not teach, per se. He sang, he yelled, he jumped up and down, he taught us absurd and scandalous rhymes and songs, and he made up nick-names for every last student in every class. Since I didn’t have any friends in that class, it was many moons before I finally learned anyone’s actual first names. When fellow students approached me outside of class, they apologized for knowing me only as "Belch."

Within a few days of the beginning of school, I stumbled into class with wet hair a few minutes after the bell had rung. Mr. Shrump told me that if I was going to arrive to his class late, I was not invited at all. He then promptly asked me to leave. Humiliated, I ran out of the class. While waiting for the next period to begin I cried on the shoulders of Ms. Shaw, a campus supervisor who had moved along with the 8th graders from King Junior High School to the hallowed halls of Berkeley High School. Ms. Shaw hugged me while her walkie-talkie made fuzzy sounds. The next day I sat in even more terror of this man who was unwilling to enable my time-debting disease. Not only was this man willing to behave like Robin Williams to teach us spanish, but he also expected us to take him seriously!

It got worse. In the following weeks I learned that despite the fact that I had been fluent in Spanish for most of my life, I was going to receive a C in Mr. Shrump’s class if I didn’t sit down and learn spanish grammar. However, in spite of this rocky beginning with this man who acted as if he had been plucked off of some deranged production of the "Music Man" and whose high standards (how dare he ask me to get to class on time!) challenged all of my notions of school, Mr. Shrump grew on me.

Due to an undiscovered personality disorder, I am addicted to laughter and I loved to laugh at Mr. Shrump’s ridiculous jokes and mannerisms. By the time my 14-year-old self ended up sitting in his class, Mr. Shrump had had over thirty years to hone his tight set. To me, his jokes were brilliant. When he wanted to assist us in achieving the proper pronunciation of "Habrá" the future tense of ‘to be,’ he placed his hands in cylindrical shape over his chest and shouted "A bra!" If I lazily pronounced "con," the Spanish word for "with," in an American accent, Mr. Shrump would turn to me with indignation and cry, "What kind? Vanilla or chocolate?"

I eventually began to see how his apparent insanity was dosed with wisdom and his strict rules inspired by a touch of tenderness for the young souls who showed up to his class.

When my mother visited his class for Parents night and informed him that she was my mother, he reportedly (and this is my mom doing the reporting) smiled and said, "Solange is special." He thought I was special? Maybe he said that to all the parents, but it still had a profound effect on me. At the very least, he noticed me.

I don’t know if all people have such an experience to reflect back on, but for me it remains a source of hope and faith to remember the sense of trust and love that I felt for a committed teacher.

In the years that followed I continued to enroll in his class. I eventually began to see how his apparent insanity was dosed with wisdom and his strict rules inspired by a touch of tenderness for the young souls who showed up to his class. I didn’t consciously realize this, but somehow, in some mysterious unseen, unobtrusive and subtle way, Mr. Shrump showed his love for his students. Mr. Shrump never complained about the school administration or work. He simply went to work every day with a kind of energy and resilience that seemed amazing in a man approaching 60. He loved teaching and it showed.

In the years that followed graduation, I went to college, worked at jobs and grew up (sort of). Only now can I see the immense value in the experience of having Mr. Shrump as part of my life at such a formative time. I have heard that the teacher-student relationship is a sacred archetype. I still don’t know Mr. Shrump very well personally, though we exchange Christmas cards every year. But he fulfilled his space in the archetype of the student/teacher relationship in my life and with that gave me a gift. I don’t know if all people have such an experience to reflect back on, but for me it remains a source of hope and faith to remember the sense of trust and love that I felt for a committed teacher.