Life Lessons
Carol Birdsall: Ode to a Teacher
What we learn through the shifting lenses of time
For a moment, I had no idea who Caroline Birdsall was. I mean, as a child growing up, how often did you use your teacher’s first name? My brain just did not make the immediate neurological connection between “Caroline Birdsall” and “Ms. Birdsall.” Caroline Birdsall was a complete stranger, a face in the crowd; Ms. Birdsall was my fourth grade teacher. Funny how the hippocampus works.
I stumbled across her on the morning of Thanksgiving 2020, on Facebook. When I came across her name - which hasn’t been at the forefront of my consciousness since I was 10 - it wasn’t as a photo tag or suggested profile in the “People You May Know” queue, but as an obituary posted in the feed of a former classmate.
Sadly, Ms. Birdsall —Caroline to the grown ups, and Carol to friends— passed away unexpectedly on November 17, 2020. I was 10 years old when she taught me and now I’m 35, yet here I sit paying homage to a women I have not seen or spoken to or even thought much about in a quarter of a century because her random reemergence into the vanguard of my conscious thoughts jolted through me like the shocking chill of ice water unexpectedly running down one’s back.
I’m not going to pontificate on how Ms. Birdsall changed my life or was “that teacher” in my educational journey - that one you remember who gives you the guiding spark that ignites a self-defining passion. Its nothing personal against the woman; I was a terrible student at that early age, and I’m certain she tried her best. My clearest memories of fourth grade and Ms. Birdsall are the poor woman’s repeated — almost daily — entreaties that I do and bring back my homework. All told, I think I did maybe fifteen or twenty homework assignments for the entire school year, and after all this time, for the life of me I’m not sure why. Apathy? Stupidity? Rebelliousness? Maybe I just thought that I was too cool for school. Whatever the reason, Ms. Birdsall was just a teacher trying to do her job, and my 10 year old brain saw her as the enemy, the teacher who was a total drag, always ragging on me about my homework. Lame city, man.
Looking back on all this as a grown up, I could, to put it honestly but indelicately, kick my own ass. I don’t know if Ms. Birdsall disliked me, because at that age I was gloriously unconcerned with what others thought of me, but I would certainly not have held a grudge against her if in fact she hadn’t.
So with that history laid bare, I can’t exactly wax nostalgic about how this woman and I shared any sort of special bond, though I’m quite certain that she tried, and I’m just as certain that the failure was mine.
What I can write about is how our views change as the lenses of time shift, and the lessons we learn from those changes in perspective.
‘I never teach my pupils; I only attempt to provide the conditions in which they can learn.’ –Albert Einstein
From the perspective of my 10 year old self, Ms. Birdsall was my nagging teacher; at 35, I now know and freely admit that I was the poor and inattentive student, and thus the one history will undoubtedly remember as the villain in this particular story. I was fortunate that she cared enough to nag me for my homework everyday, that she tried to change my habits; I was blessed that she cared enough to chase me as much as she did. She was dedicated to her craft, and true to her mission. As I sit here unexpectedly reminiscing, I must admit that I was quite fortunate that she didn’t throttle me— I’m sure it crossed her mind a time or three!
When you’re a child, your teachers are uncomplicated and seemingly omnipresent. They are larger than life, second only to your parents in terms of being symbols of authority and structure. They are mythical beings that appear with the sound of the school day’s opening bell, and then simply disappear into the ether at the end of the day. As a child, you don’t realize that teachers are just people doing a job, people who have houses to go home to, families of their own to sit around the dinner table with , and passions to pursue.
In the eyes of my fourth grade self, Mrs. Birdsall was just a teacher — mysterious and all powerful — but in reading her obituary as an adult, she was humanized. I discovered that Caroline Birdsall was a fascinating and wonderful person.
For starters, she graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Harvard University with a degree in English. She was damn brilliant, and had the sheepskin receipts to prove it. She could have pursued more lucrative career ventures, but she chose the noble yet humble teaching profession. Her passion for the theater was evident in the Shakespearean plays that she produced with her students, but her brilliance and dedication to her craft was evident in how she used those productions to advance educational lessons and learning objectives, both in terms of school and life. I remember the plays — Macbeth immediately springs to mind— and as a child, they seemed like a more interesting way to spend the school day when compared to just sitting in a classroom (though I was certainly ignorant to the fact that it was designed to be that way whilst still being educational). As an adult, I marvel at the amount of planning and sheer force of will that must have gone into every production, the love and passion that this woman must have poured into each one of those plays, year after year, class after class.
However, the theater was not Ms. Birdsall’s only passionate pursuit in the arts. As it turns out, she was a talented and accomplished violinist. Her musical resume is equal parts impressive and diverse: she had studied at the Yale School of Music, played with the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, and even supported her love of theater through music by playing in the pit orchestra of the local community theater. Her musical passion and prowess was what humanized her for me, what brought this woman from being the mysterious teacher Ms. Birdsall to being the brilliant and talented Caroline Birdsall: dedicated educator, theater maven, and violin virtuoso. Since all I knew about her was that she had been my fourth grade teacher, it was as if I were discovering that she were leading a secret double life, like she was a super hero — educating young minds by day, and making beautiful music by night.
Hell, a teacher like her — she was a super hero by any standard.
The final tidbits in the obituary of a women who for 25 years I never really knew were the sweetest — she never married, but adored animals and lived with two cats and a dog. She took refuge and found inspiration in nature, and enjoyed hiking and cycling. Her mother is still alive, and I had a warm image of Caroline going to visit on the weekends, maybe filling her mom in on the latest happenings with her play, maybe playing a newly learned violin piece for her. Then I had a sad image of her mother sitting in a rocking chair today, mourning her little girl. I bet she made her mother proud. When you’re a child, you don’t conceive of these things; you don’t consider that your teacher has a mother of her own that she loves and who loves her back.
I found myself wondering if there was ever a day 25 years ago when she’d come home from a long one, the kind of day where her classroom students wouldn’t listen or sit still, another day were she had once again been chasing that damn Brian Courtney for his homework, a day when he’d promised he’d get that night’s assignment done but they both knew he wouldn’t— maybe not out of malice, but nonetheless he would not have his homework the next day, she’d be sure of it — and looked at her Harvard diploma and thought: “I can do other things. I don’t need to live the frustrating life of a public school teacher. I don’t need to be chasing that ungrateful Brian Courtney for his homework.” I bet that in that hypothetical moment of doubt and frustration, she wished that she taught Catholic school so she could wallop me with a ruler. But then, she’d get up in the morning and go back to Louisa May Alcott School in Concord, Massachusetts and teach her lesson plan — something I’m certain she worked very hard on — and even though she’d discover her suspicions were right, that that friggin’ Brian Courtney didn’t have his homework, she’d nag at him again and maybe even ask him to stay behind before recess to talk about how he could improve, not because she liked to nag him or because she was picking on him, but because she wanted to help him grow.
If the 10 year old me never appreciated her efforts or didn’t understand them, 35 year old me certainly does. I’m grateful for everything she did.
‘”Teachers teach because they care. Teaching young people is what they do best. It requires long hours, patience, and care.” — Horace Mann
Caroline Birdsall, formerly known to me only as Ms. Birdsall my fourth grade teacher, was quite a remarkable woman. She was a brilliant Ivy League graduate who could have punched her own ticket in the world of theater or taken a cushy professorship at one of Boston’s nearby universities, and yet she chose to dedicate her life to educating young, developing minds in public school. She was a gifted musician who played with the prestigious Boston Philharmonic, and yet also used her talent to serve her community by playing in the orchestra pit of the local theater house. She was a world class mind who made a difference locally, serving her town and touching the lives of thousands upon thousands of students, all passing through her classroom year in and year out, decade after decade. Sure, she had to nag some of her students, those of the the thicker skulled variety such as moi, but there was a good reason: she cared. It was that simple. Love usually is.
I suppose that a small piece of my motivation to write this stems from a vain attempt to make amends; that somehow submitting my final written assignment — 25 years past it’s due date and a few days eternally late — is my own way of showing her that although it took a quarter of a century, I get why she nagged me, and I appreciate her ceaseless effort and patience and dedication. But, I suppose there is also regret. I’m sitting here writing an ode to a woman that I never really appreciated when she taught me; a person who spent her time and considerable gifts serving others; a hero who spent her days selflessly dedicating her life to teaching and enriching kids. Somewhere out there in the cosmos, I hope there is some medium, some ethereal sense for her to know that what I couldn’t understand or appreciate at 10 years old has finally resonated at 35.
So farewell and Godspeed to you, Caroline Birdsall. Maybe someday in the great beyond we’ll meet up to discuss Shakespeare and classical music, but until then I’ll strive to live the lessons you taught me all this time later: how to live, how to serve my community, and perhaps most of all, how to fulfill expectations and hit a deadline.
