Thoughts of suicide were clouding my thoughts when we moved to Doyline in 1965. I was in the middle of my freshmen year in high school. We had moved from Paris, France. I can remember wondering what the kids at this new school would be like. I knew they would be different from my friends in France. They lived in Doyline, for goodness sake! My first day and those to follow were horribly painful.
The next few weeks were pretty intense. Trying to catch up on my grades. Trying to make new friends. Trying to fit in. I had learned that the kids were calling me a French whore. I didn’t know what that meant. That was a word I had never heard before. I knew it had to be bad. I went home and asked my mother what it meant. She was mortified that the children were calling me this. When she explained what it meant as gently as she could, it pierced me like a knife. How could they think that of me? They didn’t even know me?
I remember feeling very left out. I began writing a letter to my best friend in Paris. I wrote about my pain and my desire not to live. I made the mistake of writing it in my English class. I would have gotten away with it except for the fact that my impulsive crying caught the attention of my teacher. Mr. Jimmy Smith was a new teacher to Doyline. This was his second year of teaching. He was in his early thirties and somewhat attractive. He walked over to me and gently asked for the note which I had tucked in my book. He took the note and asked that I meet with him after class. Great, I thought, one more thing.
I stayed after class. Mr. Smith closed the door behind us. He pulled up a chair beside his and asked that I take a seat. I was shaking like a leaf. He put his hand on my shoulder and began to apologize for having read my letter. Instead of scolding me for not paying attention in class, he gently began to ask me why someone like me would consider writing such a thing. I explained the difficultly I was having fitting in. I shared the trials of the last several weeks and the taunting that I had received from the students. He said something to me that no one at this point had ever said to me, not even my parents. “You really don’t know just how special you are, do you?” Me, special? He then asked if I would trust him and he made a pledge to help me get through high school and on to college.
For the next four years, Mr. Smith coached me in my studies. He gave me books to read and on our lunch hour, he would quiz me about them. We would discuss what the author meant when he wrote the book. I was so determined to please Mr. Smith that I took the many books he assigned to me and read them over and over. I was not a good student. My grades were fair. Mr. Smith recognized my artistic abilities, too, and made sure that I would be included in the various theatrical productions he was assigned to direct. The juniors and seniors each year put on a play. He brought me in as a sophomore for a bit part. I was to deliver two lines. I had no idea that this theatre thing would be my thing. I fretted over those two lines for months but my delivery was perfect. The audience screamed with laughter over those two lines and I was in heaven.
Each year the best of the best would represent their schools at literary rally. Molly, one of the more brilliant students in Mr. Smith’s class was designated to go in English Literature. No one doubted that she was the right person to represent the class. Molly was sick and would not be able to compete. Without asking and without notice, Mr. Smith announced in class that he would be sending me to take her place. I gasped, as did the other students. “Oh, no, you can’t send me,” I said out loud. “Please pick someone one else.” Mr. Smith didn’t acknowledge my comments. He went on with the class as if nothing had happened. I stayed after class to once again insist that he send someone else. “You can do it, Christine.” He was the only teacher who called me by my given name. “You know all those books I’ve had you read all these years? Well, that’s what this test is about?” He told me that he wanted me to do this for him. He told me not to worry about placing. He told me to know that he believed in me and that I was the right person to go while he handed me one more book to read.
I went to the literary rally and it felt good to sit among the brightest stars of Doyline High. I took the test and I felt good about it. I had no expectations as Mr. Smith instructed. The results came in before we left Louisiana Tech that day. Over the loud speaker they announced that the first place winner in the English Literature division went to Christine Sampson of Doyline High School. I couldn’t believe it. We returned on the bus that day and when we arrived school was still in session. I walked into the big hallway that ran down the middle of the school. And on the other end of the hall, I could hear Mr. Smith shouting “Christine!” He scooped me up and twirled me around. Everything was in slow motion, like in the movies. He kept saying “I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it.”
Mr. Smith’s encouragement and support saved me. When graduation time rolled around and we were all getting ready to plan our next step. I had enrolled at Louisiana Tech and was told that they had an excellent art department. During graduation week, Mr. Smith said he had written a poem for us. He also announced that he would no longer be teaching after this year. I couldn’t believe it. He was one of the best. Why would he quit? Where was he going? He explained to us that his time at Doyline was over and that he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Rumor was that he was independently wealthy and really didn’t need to teach.
I went to Louisiana Tech and my stay there only lasted a year. (That’s another story) I moved back home and did what many of my fellow female classmates did. I got married. I didn’t see Mr. Smith after graduation. And he did indeed leave Doyline High school.
Many years later I was taking a dance class in Minden. I had opened the Children’s Center and thought that I might be able to bring more enrichment through dance if I knew a few steps myself. Bill Cook was my instructor. I did not know Bill personally. I had heard about him and I had heard that he was a dancer in New York and had even written a book. We got to know each other and before long I had learned that he had written a second book but it had not been published. I found out that much of it was still in long hand and that he didn’t have the money to pay to have it transcribed. I offered to do it for him. We met at the Children’s Center every Tuesday afternoon for a few months.
While I was typing his book on the computer, we began to exchange details about ourselves. I asked him who in his life had given him the confidence to write and who was it that encouraged him to write down his stories. He shared his life in New York. But he did admit that it was a friend that told him he could write. He went on to share that this close friend was a school teacher for a brief time. He said his friend told him of a student of his that he referred lovingly as his ‘rising star.’ Bill continued to share that this friend left the teaching profession after his rising star graduated.. He went on to say that he taught English at Doyline. Could this be my Mr. Smith? Out of curiosity, I asked who the teacher was. “Jimmy Smith,” he said. “Wait that was my teacher at Doyline.” To which Bill said as we both realized at the same time ……“You are his Christine?!!!”
“He dearly loved you,” Bill Cook told me. “And I dearly loved him,” I replied. “Jimmy Smith saved my life.”
Jimmy Smith died a few years later but not before I was able to share with him the impact he had on my life. I will forever be indebted to this man, this teacher, who saw in me what nobody else saw and who loved me unconditionally. What a gift?! What an Angel!
I love you Mr. Smith!
The next few weeks were pretty intense. Trying to catch up on my grades. Trying to make new friends. Trying to fit in. I had learned that the kids were calling me a French whore. I didn’t know what that meant. That was a word I had never heard before. I knew it had to be bad. I went home and asked my mother what it meant. She was mortified that the children were calling me this. When she explained what it meant as gently as she could, it pierced me like a knife. How could they think that of me? They didn’t even know me?
I remember feeling very left out. I began writing a letter to my best friend in Paris. I wrote about my pain and my desire not to live. I made the mistake of writing it in my English class. I would have gotten away with it except for the fact that my impulsive crying caught the attention of my teacher. Mr. Jimmy Smith was a new teacher to Doyline. This was his second year of teaching. He was in his early thirties and somewhat attractive. He walked over to me and gently asked for the note which I had tucked in my book. He took the note and asked that I meet with him after class. Great, I thought, one more thing.
I stayed after class. Mr. Smith closed the door behind us. He pulled up a chair beside his and asked that I take a seat. I was shaking like a leaf. He put his hand on my shoulder and began to apologize for having read my letter. Instead of scolding me for not paying attention in class, he gently began to ask me why someone like me would consider writing such a thing. I explained the difficultly I was having fitting in. I shared the trials of the last several weeks and the taunting that I had received from the students. He said something to me that no one at this point had ever said to me, not even my parents. “You really don’t know just how special you are, do you?” Me, special? He then asked if I would trust him and he made a pledge to help me get through high school and on to college.
For the next four years, Mr. Smith coached me in my studies. He gave me books to read and on our lunch hour, he would quiz me about them. We would discuss what the author meant when he wrote the book. I was so determined to please Mr. Smith that I took the many books he assigned to me and read them over and over. I was not a good student. My grades were fair. Mr. Smith recognized my artistic abilities, too, and made sure that I would be included in the various theatrical productions he was assigned to direct. The juniors and seniors each year put on a play. He brought me in as a sophomore for a bit part. I was to deliver two lines. I had no idea that this theatre thing would be my thing. I fretted over those two lines for months but my delivery was perfect. The audience screamed with laughter over those two lines and I was in heaven.
Each year the best of the best would represent their schools at literary rally. Molly, one of the more brilliant students in Mr. Smith’s class was designated to go in English Literature. No one doubted that she was the right person to represent the class. Molly was sick and would not be able to compete. Without asking and without notice, Mr. Smith announced in class that he would be sending me to take her place. I gasped, as did the other students. “Oh, no, you can’t send me,” I said out loud. “Please pick someone one else.” Mr. Smith didn’t acknowledge my comments. He went on with the class as if nothing had happened. I stayed after class to once again insist that he send someone else. “You can do it, Christine.” He was the only teacher who called me by my given name. “You know all those books I’ve had you read all these years? Well, that’s what this test is about?” He told me that he wanted me to do this for him. He told me not to worry about placing. He told me to know that he believed in me and that I was the right person to go while he handed me one more book to read.
I went to the literary rally and it felt good to sit among the brightest stars of Doyline High. I took the test and I felt good about it. I had no expectations as Mr. Smith instructed. The results came in before we left Louisiana Tech that day. Over the loud speaker they announced that the first place winner in the English Literature division went to Christine Sampson of Doyline High School. I couldn’t believe it. We returned on the bus that day and when we arrived school was still in session. I walked into the big hallway that ran down the middle of the school. And on the other end of the hall, I could hear Mr. Smith shouting “Christine!” He scooped me up and twirled me around. Everything was in slow motion, like in the movies. He kept saying “I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it.”
Mr. Smith’s encouragement and support saved me. When graduation time rolled around and we were all getting ready to plan our next step. I had enrolled at Louisiana Tech and was told that they had an excellent art department. During graduation week, Mr. Smith said he had written a poem for us. He also announced that he would no longer be teaching after this year. I couldn’t believe it. He was one of the best. Why would he quit? Where was he going? He explained to us that his time at Doyline was over and that he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Rumor was that he was independently wealthy and really didn’t need to teach.
I went to Louisiana Tech and my stay there only lasted a year. (That’s another story) I moved back home and did what many of my fellow female classmates did. I got married. I didn’t see Mr. Smith after graduation. And he did indeed leave Doyline High school.
Many years later I was taking a dance class in Minden. I had opened the Children’s Center and thought that I might be able to bring more enrichment through dance if I knew a few steps myself. Bill Cook was my instructor. I did not know Bill personally. I had heard about him and I had heard that he was a dancer in New York and had even written a book. We got to know each other and before long I had learned that he had written a second book but it had not been published. I found out that much of it was still in long hand and that he didn’t have the money to pay to have it transcribed. I offered to do it for him. We met at the Children’s Center every Tuesday afternoon for a few months.
While I was typing his book on the computer, we began to exchange details about ourselves. I asked him who in his life had given him the confidence to write and who was it that encouraged him to write down his stories. He shared his life in New York. But he did admit that it was a friend that told him he could write. He went on to share that this close friend was a school teacher for a brief time. He said his friend told him of a student of his that he referred lovingly as his ‘rising star.’ Bill continued to share that this friend left the teaching profession after his rising star graduated.. He went on to say that he taught English at Doyline. Could this be my Mr. Smith? Out of curiosity, I asked who the teacher was. “Jimmy Smith,” he said. “Wait that was my teacher at Doyline.” To which Bill said as we both realized at the same time ……“You are his Christine?!!!”
“He dearly loved you,” Bill Cook told me. “And I dearly loved him,” I replied. “Jimmy Smith saved my life.”
Jimmy Smith died a few years later but not before I was able to share with him the impact he had on my life. I will forever be indebted to this man, this teacher, who saw in me what nobody else saw and who loved me unconditionally. What a gift?! What an Angel!
I love you Mr. Smith!
What a great post. We all have our heroes from our younger years that stepped in just at the right time to make a huge impression on us and keep us on track. Thanks for sharing!
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