Tim Sears 9/14/09 Essay on a Person LA IIIIB Mrs. Johnson, my kindergarden teacher, was patient and kind; the perfect transition between my previous at home life, and my life at school. She was maternal; warm and even-tempered, yet she was stern and stubborn, qualities of a good Catholic school teacher. Often, I marvel at her composure, during times that I would surely crack. Surely, being a good kindergarden teacher requires someone of a special make, someone like Mrs. Johnson. I first meet Mrs Jhonson on my first day of school. I start the day by waking up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and begining to ask my parents the same questions I had asked the previous day. They patiently answer every last one as they coax me into my new school clothes, feed me my daily regimen of Cheerios, and gently nudge me into the white dusty minivan. Mrs Johnson is there to greet me as I pass under the brilliantly colorful doorway, plastered with student’s crude artwork. The giant looks down at me with a warm, pleasant smile. She is huge, craning her neck to see me, way down below her. A straw-like birds nest of hair perches above her wide head. Her expressive eyebrows are big and bushy with stray hairs pointing every which way. Beneath them, her brown eyes are bright, and look wider then they should be. They gaze with a certain intensity that makes me uneasy. She blinks more then what looks necessary; drinking in every word I say. Her ears are adorned with dangling apple earrings, no doubt a gift from an appreciative student. Her neck is long, confidently craning itself out of her scratchy grey vest. Her modest white shirt and long swooping skirt is alien to me, radically different then the casual t-shirts and jeans that I see my parents in. I am terrified of this strange new woman. I nudge closer to my mother, digging my fingers into her kneecaps. Mrs. Johnson asks me nice questions about myself, questions to make me feel grown up. I reply in nervous, one-word answers, my eyes darting away from her gaze. She talks in a peculiar manner, speaking about herself in the 3rd person and taking long audible breaths between sentences. “Mrs. Johnson is very excited to teach you this year” For some reason, her way of speaking makes my fingers loose their tension, and I begin to edge further from my mother.Over the next few months, I found that Mrs. Johnson had an excellent repour with her students. It seemed to me that she was a 6 year old in a 60 year old's body. There was no way to see it, but she seemed to have a child-like aura that the other adults lacked. She was able to follow a rambling 5 year old conversation, lacking in any continuity or context, and could communicate back aswell. One crispy day in winter, when the windows were iced, and our cubbies were stuffed with soft wool sweaters, I saw Mrs Johnson's less soft-hearted side. We were building a massive structure, easily 300 feet tall, out of our seemingly endless supply of Lincon Logs. We had just finished the west wall, and I decided the time was right to test our mighty construction. I rammed my head into the side, and the Lincon Logs instantly separated. The massive stack wavered, then fell on little Rowan. After the rubble fell, Rowan began to cry. Before I knew what happened, a strong, wrinkly hand grabbed my arm. Mrs Johnson stood over me, her seemingly ever present grin was nowhere on her tired face. The reassuring twinkle in her eye was gone. I was afraid as I was the first day. Her nostrils flared, and her bushy eyebrows were slanted a violent angle. She talked with a low, monotone voice that made me feel small :eerie like wind on a placid lake. My innocent smile quickly escapes from my face. She asked me, with her voice that was calm like after a storm, if I had meant to hurt poor Rowan. The cowardice words were barely able to leave my trembling lips. I normally would have lied and said that I did not mean to knock over the building. However, by some force that was greater then I could explain, I told her that I meant to knock over the tower. I did not know why I wanted to tell her the truth, even though the truth was embarrassing. Untill recently, I did not realise that was the first day that I felt guilt. When I akwardly explained that my intentions were innocent, that the Lincon Logs were not intended to fall on poor rowan, the warm, fireside feeling returned to her face. Her smile re-appeared, and the goosebumps on my neck descended back into their hiding place. She let me sulk a long. Mrs Jhonson was no doubt the perfect Catholic school teacher. She was kind, caring, and forgiving. She held my hand through the rough transition years between home-life and school-life as only a Catholic teacher can. She also kept me in line as only a Catholic teacher can. She helped me understand what it was like to feel guilt (a quality in a Catholic) and her strange ways helped me to where I am today, as a student and also as a person.