The moment I crossed the threshold of Mrs. Jameson’s English 1 class was a turning point in my education. It was 1998, and my classmates and I sat silently in her sparsely decorated classroom. Her reputation as a tough, no-nonsense teacher preceded her, and we were all a little bit terrified. Could we survive?
English 1 was a high-school-level course, and Mrs. Jameson never let us forget it. She expected so much from every student, including me. But what I didn’t know then was that she understood me more than I even realized. Her husband, “Red,” had been hired by my grandfather to coach at Abbeville High School many years before I was born.
When she saw my last name—saw that I was the granddaughter of Tommy Hite, Sr., after whom the high school football stadium was named, the daughter of the quarterback of the Panthers’ winning team of the late ‘60s—she knew my family, but she had to have seen, too, that I was different.
I was a loquacious kid, and I’m sure I wasn’t shy about voicing my disdain for football. She knew I quit cheerleading to join the band. My first persuasive essay in her class was called “You, Too, Can Play the Oboe.”
She saw that I was a young artist born into a sports family—a kid who was scared and insecure in her adolescent years—and yet, she encouraged me to write from the truest places of my experience, of my heart.
She helped a struggling 8th grader—and later a young woman in her twenties, a new mom—believe that being herself was not a liability but a gift.
But before you think I got off easy, being my champion didn’t mean she wasn’t tough. I remember getting my essays back dripping with red ink, covered in her pristine cursive handwriting. If you know her, you know she wouldn’t let much get by. But behind her critique was a staunch belief in my writing; she’s the reason I am still writing today.
That English 1 year, she nominated me for the Lieutenant Governor’s Writing Award. I don’t remember what I wrote about or how any of that transpired; all I remember is that when I won, Mrs. Jameson drove me to Columbia for the award ceremony. We talked nonstop through the two-hour drive, about everything.
She was my teacher and my mentor, but after that day, I knew that when I graduated, she would become like a third grandmother, a cherished friend.
After boarding school (where I attended my junior and senior years of high school, at her recommendation), and through college and graduate school, whenever I came home, we’d have one of our long lunches. I’d pick her up from her house on Dundas Road, and I’d play a little oboe for her before we went out for chips and salsa and, of course, chocolate lava cake—she loved dessert! We’d talk for hours about books, family, faith, and everything in between.
Throughout the years I knew her, though, I never called her Margaret. She was always Mrs. Jameson to me, and I love that. That relationship was more special than being on a first name basis.
When my first book was published last year, I credited her in the acknowledgements and called her “my forever English teacher.” When the second one comes out next year, even after all these years, her fingerprints will be all over it. Perhaps, from a heavenly perch, she’s already found a typo or two. I can see her now: the gentle, knowing smile, the eyebrows raised.
I wasn’t able to make it home this week for her funeral. The grief of losing a dear friend, of missing being there to lay her to rest, has me reflecting on just how deeply our relationship impacted me.
Even more than the love of reading and writing that she cultivated in me, more than the rules for grammar and punctuation, she taught me something that has deeply influenced the way I move through the world, especially as I support others as a coach, as a writer in the creative nonfiction space, and as a mother.
To be believed in, to be seen and taken seriously, to be respected–these are the secret longings in every 8th grader’s heart, in every artist’s heart, every person’s heart, no matter the age or stage.
I knew Mrs. Jameson saw something in me because of the questions she asked me, the work she expected from me, the time and attention she gave me, and the steadfastness of her faithful friendship.
As I coached artists this week, as my children came to me with questions about homework and music practice, I channeled Mrs. Jameson. I saw the light in their eyes brighten when I genuinely cared about their work, when I asked questions about their creative choices, and I brainstormed ideas for how they could uncover the answers themselves.
I sought to respect them by looking at what they have to offer, not to name their work’s value or to confirm their worst fears, but to let them know I see them. I want to remind them they aren’t alone, even if, especially if, they feel different.
In her memory, may we not forget the power we have to lift others with something as small as our expectations, our attention, and our time.
May we make the phone call, send the text, follow up, even if it’s been years; engage in the simple and inexpensive practice of “visitin’” across a chocolate lava cake, remembering the miracle that is the art of listening, believing in, respecting, and treasuring those who are placed in your path.
I hope to be for others even an ounce of what she was for me: a steadfast believer, a gentle guide, and a faithful friend who saw beyond the surface.
This was Mrs. Jameson’s gift.
Her life mattered; knowing her changed this artist forever.
Do you have a teacher or mentor like that? Someone who peered through all of your posturing, right into who you are?
I’d love to read about your teachers in the comments.
May our beloved Mrs. Jameson rest peacefully, knowing her lessons on life and grammar live on.
Love this! I hope I’ve been that teacher to a few kids in my time ♥️