Christine is a Color
by Ruth Arnell
I got a call from my mom this afternoon: After battling with cancer for years, Christine Darnell passed away two nights ago.
I remember getting sent to Mrs. Darnell’s 7th grade classroom for detention when I was in 1st or 2nd grade – probably for talking. In my plaid jumper and knee high socks the light bouncing off the bright yellow walls made the heat in there almost unbearable. And all her students seemed unapproachably enormous with their vests and their pens – things those of us in lower elementary wouldn’t use for years. I felt so embarrassed knocking on that door, telling her why I was supposed to sit in her room, walking to the empty desk at the back of the room, turning it around to face the window. But – she talked to me, she let them talk to me. The room was so alien, but so — so exactly what I’d expected. No surprises, no giggling, no games. It was detention, after all, not a field trip. But she was so patient with my tiny nerves, and so kind. My dread turned to humble learning. And I survived. Quietly.
I remember how, if you had a loose tooth that you were afraid to pull out yourself, you’d get sent to her classroom and she’d pull it out for you. It’s kind of a weird thing to be good at – but she was. Kids went up there all the time and returned, smiling, with fists closed around small, pointed teeth.
And she had those huge flip notepads to put on this easel in the front of her room. There was the page with all the prepositions, and the ones with the lyrics to old hymns – the poetry of my people – all in her perfectly uniform handwriting.
Years later when she was my teacher, my grandma packed a sandwich in my lunch that used Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise. I hated Miracle Whip. It literally made me gag. Mrs. Darnell walked down the tables to check our lunch bags, and saw that mine still had an entire sandwich in it. She made me stay until it was finished. Luckily her decree was enforced under the honor system, so my sandwich found its way to the trash can five minutes after the rest of the class had gone back to the room to hear her read from Dark is a Color.
I used to read that book out loud to myself and wish I lived someplace like Clyte. Now I write about such places and save up my money to visit them.
She taught me why we stood next to our desks when speaking to our teachers. I still stand on the inside when addressing someone I respect. I hope they can tell.
