June 15, 2024 by Amy
Bright and Beautiful Things
The summer before seventh grade, my parents moved to a new school district. I left all my friends I had known since kindergarten and went to a new, much smaller school, filled with kids who had known each other since they were in kindergarten at the elementary school that was within sight (two parking lots and a track away, to be precise) of our middle school. The tight bond of the kids in my new class was the first strike against me. Why bother to make a new friend when you’ve got your usual crowd?
The second strike was my physical appearance. I was pre-orthodontia intervention, so I had jacked-up teeth. I had already discovered my predilection for short hair, which my mother, for some unfathomable reason, styled in a George Washington-powdered wig sort of way, if it was styled at all.
I also didn’t give a shit about my clothes or any sense of fashion, a trait that bedevils me to this day. (My fashion sense can generously be described as “it currently fits, is clean, and I haven’t worn it yet this week.”) Given that and my parents’ lower-middle class income, I didn’t wear the latest labels or sport the current trends. The icing on the cake was gym class, where we were forced to wear t-shirts tucked into elastic-waisted polyester gym shorts. As a girl with very long legs and a very short torso, this sartorial combination served to make it appear as if I had my shorts perpetually hiked up to my armpits. Not a great look. I spent the entirety of junior high trying to yank my shorts down to sit on my hips, not over them. It was a futile endeavor. The stupid elastic inevitably crept north, especially as I was running around that damn track. (This, my friends, is why I do not own a belt and you will never, ever see me wearing a tucked-in shirt.)
Kids in middle school are, generally, dicks. It’s not their fault. It’s a phase children go through as they are learning how to deal with their bodies and their brains changing, their environments changing (accountability from both parents and teachers really starts to amp up here), and their emotions hijacking their moods. Boys are learning that their bodies are growing faster than their sense of balance can keep up, and girls are learning for the first time how to navigate the utter shitstorm of hormonal changes. It’s not a great time for anyone. I work in a school now, and my office is in the middle school specifically, so I see this every day. At my school, we do a great job pounding in the importance of kindness and respect and we still can’t keep kids from being dicks all the time. Back in the 80s, when adults didn’t know about the importance of social-emotional learning, it was worse but still no one’s fault.
I started my new school terrified. I was alone and afraid, dropped into the choppy waters of adolescence without a life jacket. My parents were supportive but had their own worries and stresses to figure out, not the least of which was assuming a larger mortgage to get us into a better school district. I was largely left to my own devices to figure things out. Pretty quick, I realized that I wasn’t going to be accepted into any friend groups. If kids weren’t being outright mean to my face (I remember one girl yelling at me to pull my shorts lower as we ran around the track, as if I weren’t already acutely aware that I looked ridiculous), they were ignoring my existence entirely. Hard to tell which is more painful.
Thankfully, I found three buoys in the cesspool: people to whom I owe so much for the formation of my personality. Two peers, Stef and Teresa, talked to me when no one else would. They sat with me at lunch, smiled when they saw me in the hallway, and partnered with me on group projects. Teresa and I recreated a scene from a book our English class read (1963’s Rascal by Sterling North), and Stef and I developed a kick-ass aerobics routine to Phil Collins’ Sussudio. Shut up. It was amazing.
The third person was my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Judy Compton, who was essentially an angel sent from on high. She was beautiful and glamorous, wearing pretty dresses and high heels and perfect makeup. Sometimes she wore perfectly-creased slacks and flats, and her trim figure mirrored Audrey Hepburn’s lithe frame. She had dark hair and warm eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. And she smiled wide every single time she saw me.
She was kind, checking in on me regularly and encouraging me to truly be myself and to work hard for good grades. I had never had a teacher do this before, which is one of the reasons my parents had moved us to a new school district. I loved her class and her room became a haven for me, a place I felt truly comfortable and protected. She was more than just my teacher; she was one of the few friends I had in the whole world. At the end of each school day, she settled into her beautiful red Corvette to drive home. See? So glamorous. Because of Mrs. Compton, I was a library assistant (or a “Reading Rainbow” according to my Washington Junior High 1986 yearbook), and I was on the spelling team. I had never joined any clubs before then, and now I was in two. She had spotted my latent love of words and nurtured it, setting the foundation for what would become my life’s work.
A few years out of college I reconnected with Stef, who had moved with her parents to a different state the summer after freshman or sophomore year of high school. She, in turn, reconnected me with Mrs. Compton, and the three of us met for breakfast one day. It was so good to sit with this person who meant so much to me and thank her to her face. After that, we exchanged Christmas cards every year, and I always looked forward to her handwritten note. She watched from afar as I became a mother and continued to use the English language to craft not only a career but the ability to share my thoughts and dreams and hopes and goals. I owe this willingness to be vulnerable entirely to her. And she always included encouragement in her annual notes to me. A teacher and mentor through and through. A friend, forever.
I learned this week that Mrs. Compton died from fast-moving pancreatic cancer. Stef texted me, and we dropped a lot of f-bombs back and forth, and I sat at my desk at work and cried. I’ve cried every day since then. The world is diminished because this beautiful soul is gone. She was a lifeline to me, an angel sent when I truly needed one, and I will be forever grateful.
The day she died, I dug out my seventh grade yearbook to find photos of Mrs. Compton. There she was, still glamorous. I flipped through the book and was stunned to discover that I had only one signature. Yep, it was from my friend Mrs. Compton. “Amy,” she wrote, “To a very special student and person. May your future hold only bright and beautiful things. Come and visit me next year.” She signed it, “Mrs. Compton.” Her precise, elegant handwriting never changed in the 38 years since, but she signed her Christmas cards “Judy Compton.” I could never bring myself to call her Judy, even as the adult me, a wife and mother, told stories of her legendary kindness to my family. She will always be Mrs. Compton, and she will always be in my heart. What a legacy. Teachers, I hope you know how much you affect the students you serve. You can change the whole trajectory of someone’s life when they’re only twelve years old.
Mrs. Compton, thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the bright and beautiful things you gave.
Leave a Reply