Mrs. Weber – Educator/Life Changer
I grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania – a blue-collar city located between Cleveland and Buffalo on the shores of Lake Erie; Pittsburgh is 100 miles due south. Erie is known more for lake-effect snowstorms than anything else and has won the “Golden Snow Globe” contest several times for being the snowiest city in the continental U.S.
As the youngest of seven children (four brothers; two sisters), I lived the first 19 years of my life in a 900 square foot housing project tenement. The apartment was very cozy for our family and, like every other family in the housing project, we were poor. Humble beginnings for sure, but I learned valuable lessons in that environment that would serve me well later in life.
The housing project was full of bad elements – drugs, violence, crime – and you had to learn to navigate around that or risk being swept up in it. I was mostly successful in doing that but had my share of missteps and engagements in mischief – just lucky and clever enough to never get caught.
Some of my behavior was wrong of course, but I felt almost entitled in a strange way because bad acts had been done to me. Three months after getting my first bicycle for Christmas at age six, someone stole it. I wouldn’t have another bike for four years because my mother couldn’t afford it.
My mother was a NICU Registered Nurse and was separated from my father, so we were latchkey kids. As a devout Catholic, she insisted that my siblings and I attend parochial school because it offered a better education than the public schools, and it would instill discipline that was lacking at home. We didn’t have the means to attend parochial school, but the pastor of Our Lady of Peace parish, Father James F. Daily, recognized that we had the aptitude and made it happen. Our tuition and hot lunches were fully subsidized by the Catholic Church.
In 7th grade, my homeroom teacher was Mrs. Barb Weber – who also taught Science and Math – a late-30s aged woman; barely five feet tall; black frame glasses; frosted hair in a pixie cut. She moved to Erie a year earlier from New York City, a great educator who had a hard edge to her and a reputation for not putting up with any shenanigans. I was determined to test her limits.
One day, Mrs. Weber shared with us that she absolutely detested being called Barbie as a kid. At the end of that school day, we were tidying up the homeroom … sponging the blackboards, cleaning the chalk trays and straightening the desks. I held up two chalk-filled erasers and asked Mrs. Weber, “Hey Barbie, do you want us to clean these too?” Her face immediately filled with rage. She blew a gasket and ran across the room towards me. I ran away from her, and she chased me around the classroom. In a thick NYC accent, she exclaimed, “Navawwo (she pronounced Rs as Ws) – you qweep (i.e. creep)! When I catch you, you are so dead.” I ran out of her classroom, out of the school and sprinted home. The next day, she pulled me aside and gave me a verbal lashing and warned me that if I ever did that again then she would make my life miserable.
I never did call her Barbie again, but I pushed her buttons in other ways. Mathematics was always my strong suit; it just came very easy for me. Other subjects were more challenging – I’m a slower reader; no artistic or musical talent. I paid attention in subjects that didn’t come easy, but math was a breeze so I tended to talk during class and disturb others – much to Mrs. Weber’s displeasure.
She grew tired of my disruptive behavior, and one day she pulled me out of math class and into the hallway for a come-to-Jesus talk. Mrs. Weber talked to me for ten minutes straight. I answered all her questions with a nod, shake of the head or a shrug of the shoulders. I didn’t utter a single word.
She started, “I’ve done some research on you, and you have an interesting story.” Mrs. Weber then proceeded into a spot-on, detailed description of the housing project environment and my home life. My eyes widened over her knowledge of my family. No doubt she had received intel from Father Daily. Mrs. Weber concluded the narrative by asking if I liked living in the housing project, and I shook my head no.
She continued, “I asked the other teachers if you’re disruptive in their classes and they all said no. You don’t pay attention in math class, yet you ace every exam. Interesting. So, then I looked at the standardized Achievement Test scores. Guess who has the highest math score in the entire school?” I shrugged. “It’s you. You don’t even study for my exams do you, Mark?” I shook my head. “Didn’t think so. Would it help if I gave you math problems that are more difficult to solve?” I nodded.
She concluded her talk. “Mark, your ticket out of the housing project and to a better future is through education. And for you, it will likely involve mathematics – it’s your gift. You have a decision to make. You can either spend math class in the library by yourself or return to my classroom – but only if you don’t disrupt the class. Which one is it?” I motioned with my thumb to her classroom.
The ten minutes that Mrs. Weber spent with me in the hallway was life-changing for me. I never had a teacher, before her or after her, who took that much interest in me; who gave me the right guidance at the exact right moment. Her message that day re-routed me off the road to trouble and onto the road to success.
Nine years later, I earned my Bachelor of Science degree in Quantitative Business Analysis from Penn State University and moved to Colorado to begin my professional career. Her words of wisdom provided the inspiration and motivation to pursue that goal, and it transformed my life in ways that I never imagined. Thanks Barbie!