In 1977 I was ten. And I was most definitely not cool. Nope. I was the kid who would likely be labeled as “quirky”-that ambiguous, catch-all phrase for kids who are different. Kids who see the world through a lens uniquely theirs.
In the fourth grade, my otherness became official. A handful of classmates and myself were identified as “multi-talented” and placed in a special academic enrichment program; an experiment in education that shaped the way I see the world and myself.
My classmates and I looked forward to Thursdays, our weekly learning adventure with our funky, brilliant teacher. She was unlike any teacher we’d ever known, any adult for that matter. With long, curly, red hair that hung half-way down her back, aviator glasses and buffalo plaid flannel shirts she broke the mold. She was hip, modern, cool. She spoke rhythmically, enunciating syllables, used elevated vocabulary and encouraged us to do the same. And she listened. Fully.
This teacher was like an enigma and we students were captivated. She enthusiastically instructed us to be imaginative, think in novel ways, encouraged us to pursue inspiration, soar. It was in this classroom, working with this gifted teacher for a few hours each week, that I temporarily morphed from a silent, shy student to a bold, carefree, confident kid.
One of my favorite parts of Thursdays was read aloud time. It was during this time that I discovered my favorite book, A Wrinkle in Time. As my teacher sat upon a desk, reading aloud, everything seemed to fall away, disappear. The story had sucked us in. And I was hooked. So were my best-friend-classmates, the Brown twins.
When summer came, we read and reread the entire Meg Murry series. We spent countless hours discussing the books. We were a ten-year old book club before book clubs were even a thing. All because of Meg. Smart, angry, determined, complicated Meg. Who was lost, struggling to find her place in the Universe. Who was the hero of the story. The perfectly imperfect character. My how we got her. Because Meg Murry was us and we were her, in a kinda sorta way.
Then one day that summer, Mrs. Brown, mom of the aforementioned twins, learned that Madeline L’Engle, our favorite author, would be doing an event for kids at a Hartford department store. Of course, we had to go!
I was so excited as my friends and I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor of the department store. What would she be like, we wondered? I privately hoped she would be a bit like Mrs. Whatsit, my favorite of the otherworldly beings in A Wrinkle in Time. Although she didn’t fit the description in the book, Ms. L’Engle did not disappoint. She had short, gray hair cut into a pixie cut and kind eyes. She seemed like a genuinely nice person.
As she explained her writing process to the handful of bookish kids who’d assembled, her eyes sparkled. We knew the cool kids were at the movies seeing Star Wars and we didn’t care. We were here with one of our real-life heroes, being inspired. Ms. L’Engle talked about imagination, story ideas, and explained her writing process. As she spoke, she sketched an elephant on chart paper (it was an idea for a book she was working on). She gave my friends the sketch and then took some questions before signing books.
I chose my favorite, A Wrinkle in Time, and waited on line. When it was my turn, Ms. L’Engle looked me in the eyes and asked my name, inquired about its spelling. She smiled as she inscribed my book. She looked into my eyes as she handed me the book. “Remember. You can do anything.” Silently, I nodded in agreement.
I walked away, opened the cover and read. Tesser well, Kathie.
That moment remains one of the most special of all of my childhood memories. And my Dell Yearling copy of A Wrinkle in Time remains one of my most prized possessions. How powerful and empowering Ms. L’Engle’s words were on the page and in person.
As A Wrinkle in Time hits the theaters this week, I hope a whole new generation of special kids discover a new hero, Meg Murry. And I hope they read Ms. L’Engle’s book and hear the message and are inspired.
© Kathie Z.