Miss Billingsley
Wed., June 18, 09:02 AM
When I was a junior in high school, my English teacher was Miss Billingsley. She had a reputation as being a terror, very hard on students. She also supervised the “blue room,” where people ate lunch when they had been banished from the school cafeteria. (She did not allow carrots or celery for lunch, as they could not be eaten quietly. She tried it herself.) She was truly a character, for she took her responsibilities very seriously, and she believed those responsibilities involved more than just teaching English.
She did not generally make friends with her students. However, I had missed some time that year because of some surgery, and we chatted a little when I went after school to make up the lessons. She ranked teaching among the most important professions. First was service to the church, for she was a devout Catholic. Second was parenthood, which she knew only from afar. And third was teaching.
She drove a VW Beetle before they were trendy, and she just about “swore by” that car (although she didn’t like the idea of swearing by an inanimate object). I imagine it was easier for her to maneuver than larger cars. But kids can be so cruel. One day a bunch of boys picked the little car up and turned it completely around in its parking space. I never heard whether she needed help getting it out.
She required girls to dress modestly — no see-through or low-cut blouses or patent leather shoes. She even made the boys button up their shirts, rather than leave their T-shirts exposed. She insisted on using your given name, even if your family never did. She would, if asked politely, address you by your middle name, but she would never use your nickname.
As a teacher of literature, Miss Billingsley’s style was entirely different from what I had experienced before. I had always been taught to read material and then summarize and paraphrase when asked a question about that material. Miss Billingsley wanted us to write exactly what was in the book. (In college we called that “regurgitation.”) “Julius Caesar” was the Shakespeare play required in the eleventh grade, and I cannot say I took away any more knowledge than I had brought.
On the other hand, however, her methods worked very well for grammar. She required us to memorize the rules. On an exam, students were supposed to punctuate a sentence and then write the rule or rules pertaining to that punctuation — and punctuate the rules correctly as well. Did you ever have a teacher say, “If you’re not sure about a comma, insert one”? How about a teacher who said, “When in doubt, leave it out”? I had had both — but after Miss Billingsley’s classes, I was never in doubt. I knew.
Did it change my life? Maybe a little. When I took college placement examinations in English, I aced them — to the extent that I was excused from all freshman English. That usually happened only to English majors. But doing well on placement exams didn’t change my major or my class choices. I did, however, write to Miss Billingsley to let her know I had done well and to thank her for her help.
At the Katharine Gibbs School, what we called Business Communication was still English — and just as important as typing and shorthand. We didn’t have to memorize the rules, but we did have to be able to explain which rule we were using. I aced that too, but it didn’t change the course of my life. I would be a secretary capable of editorial judgment, but it wasn’t because of any high school teaching.
Miss Billingsley was a character, almost unbelievable. She may have been the most compulsive person I ever met. She taught me what I needed when I needed it. She makes a good story, but I can’t say she was a role model.
Thirty years later, in another city, I found myself working with a young woman whose mother had actually been in my high school class. In the light of that information, I told her some things about good old SHS, including about Miss Billingsley. Next time she came to work after visiting her parents, she told me they corroborated everything I had said. I guess she didn’t believe me.
