My Favorite Teacher


A person sitting on the ground in front of water. Miss Kuma was my high school Latin teacher. She was my mother’s Latin teacher. She must have been near 80 when I knew her, but her kindly square face was unlined, her arms firm and strong,  her legs sure and sturdy.   She walked ramrod straight,  and quickly.  There was never a hint of any  physical discomfort.  Her dresses, mostly a variation on a single design, chintz print with round collars, buttons down the front, fell straight from her shoulders to where they met her stockings mid calf above black lace-up brogan shoes.

Miss Kuma was an institution. She never married; her entire life was devoted to her teaching.   She lived with her sister in a two-story white house with a big porch and two swings, halfway up the hill to the high school.  She was my favorite teacher; my mother’s, too.  She was everyone’s favorite teacher.  She never asked for respect, it was a given.  Sadly, unlike today,  the  trust and respect  we had for our teachers was a given.  If the teacher meted out punishment, it was generally assumed it was deserved.  We  whispered and giggled behind their backs,  but they had our respect.  It was still “Yes Ma’m” and “No Sir. ”   Even our manic English teacher who was given to fits of skipping about the classroom and the slightly daft sixty-something French teacher who flirted with the football players.  But Miss Kuma was different, a cut above. She was solid, quiet, soft- spoken, authentic.  There was a waiting list for her classes, even though she only taught Latin!   Even at our age, we knew good teaching when we saw it.  She was strict, but fair and kind.  She was an undisputed authority.  Her demeanor was calm, unflappable, almost bovine.  Bovine… Did I think that  because she told us in strict confidence in  our senior year that her name “Kuma†meant “cow†in Latin?  We all laughed when she said that,  smug at being  entrusted with her secret.   We took it for gospel.  Kuma was Latin for “cow.† Miss Kuma said so.  And as for breaking her confidence – well, not an option.

But..I just looked it up in Merriam’s Dictionary on Google and Cuma is actually Japanese for bear!.

Wow!! All these years, one thing I knew for sure was that Kuma was Latin for cow.  I knew that with the same certainty that I knew that you went to church on Sunday,  that you couldn’t trust Yankees or the government, and that one’s virginity must be guarded  at all cost.

What else was Miss Kuma not telling us? What if the stories she told us about her early life on a plantation, her trip to Rome, the time she went to dinner at the Governor’s mansion .. what if they weren’t true after all?  Only  nerds took Latin; (and we took all four years) so..OK we were a select (polite word for it) group, but we never would have questioned her.  No one would have dared ask; “Hey, Miss Kuma, isn’t that word really Latin for “chair†and not “church?†Icy glares from classmates would have stopped such an upstart dead in her tracks.  But in the light of this new knowledge, I have to wonder  – What about all the sentences we painstakingly diagrammed, the painful recitations, the endless conjugations, all in dogged determination to win Miss Kuma’s soft benign smile?  Were we really learning Latin?  What if this was actually Croation? Or Latvian? Or even Greek?  No one would have known, since no one spoke any languages other than English, unless you count Cajun.

What if she really grew up on a ranch in Texas and not a plantation in Louisiana?  Did she have dinner with the governor or was it really his brother-in-law?  And did she really go to Rome – or maybe it was really only to visit her brother in Georgia.  And why did she  break this to us in our senior year and swear us to secrecy?  Who was she, really? And now that I think about it, what about the other teachers?   Or our parents? What if they weren’t who they seemed  to be either?  Were they all in this together?   Can Yankees be trusted after all?  And what about our virginity!  What weren’t they telling us about THAT!!

My faith is shaken; my confusion profound. I’m at a loss.

But before I  resign this  to  my “Things-Are-Not-Always-What-They-Seem†file which grows exponentially with the years, there is one other possibility.  Perhaps Miss Kuma knew very well that Kuma was not Latin for anything at all and was hoping one of us would actually look up the word and challenge her.  That’s the kind of teacher she was, after all.  Over and over she admonished us to think for ourselves.   “Why do you think that?” she would ask.  And even though the subject was Latin, somehow we talked about our plans, our hopes for the future.   Why didn’t we get it?  What does that say about us?  About the times we grew up in?  I’m sad for Miss Kuma if this was the case.   How many students  passed through her classroom doors, how many times had she  hoped  for one student curious enough to risk her disapproval by challenging her kind authority.  How did she manage to renew her hope for each new class?

I hope it’s not the case.  I hope I just got it wrong…