My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category School Days

Milestones and Memories: Charting a Life from Girl to Grandmother

by on ·Aging, Politics, Racism, School Days, The Way I See It

Part I

A few weeks ago, my cousin Cameron attended a rally for the Democratic presidential hopeful, Vice President Kamala Harris, during her appearance in Greenville, North Carolina. (If you missed reading Cameron’s enthusiastic commentary, scroll down to the previous post, dated October 20.)

Last Tuesday evening, former prosecutor Harris held court on the ellipse. A few short years ago, I would have gotten together with some of my buddies, and faster than you could say, “grassroots activists,” we’d have been there front and center, waving signs and hollering support till our voices gave out. But my bum knee kept me away.

My body, once as sturdy as an oak, now picks and chooses which joint wants to cry foul on any given day. Usually, it’s a knee. So, I was stuck at home while history was being made just a stone’s throw away. Of course, I watched the rally on TV, but it wasn’t the same as being there.

It’s a peculiar thing, this aging business. Sometimes, while humming Helen Ready’s hit, “I am Woman, hear me roar,” I dare myself to jog to the corner store.

Enthusiastic civic engagement and social activism moments have marked the past decades of my life. On a crisp Saturday in January 2017, my girlfriends and I joined thousands of other women participating in the Women’s March on Washington, a powerful demonstration of solidarity and advocacy for women’s rights. Just four years prior, in 2013, I was among passionate protesters decrying the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed Black teenager. That same year, I joined countless other crusaders commemorating the 50th anniversary of the historic March on Washington, reflecting on the progress made and the work still ahead in the ongoing struggle for civil rights and equality. During the 1980s, I believe it was ’83, I was participating in an anti-KKK rally and jeering as the hate group brazenly marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in the Nation’s Capital.

The question “What advice would you give your seven-year-old self?” is a common thought experiment many encounter. Although I’ve never been asked this directly, I’ve often contemplated my response.

If given the chance, I would reassure my younger self, that timid, skinny little girl, not to worry about the future. I would tell her, “I understand that right now you feel misunderstood, shy, and apprehensive about the world around you. But rest assured, this won’t always be the case. As you grow older, you’ll develop a strong sense of self-confidence. You’ll learn to balance your inherent kindness with assertiveness; life’s experiences will help you build resilience. I’d reassure her that there’s nothing inherently wrong with being kind. The world could benefit from more kindness. However, there is also truth in the adage that people often mistake kindness for weakness, so serve your kindheartedness with a dose of caution.

As a young student, you sought refuge in the back of the classroom, a silent sentinel hoping to blend into the shadows. The mere thought of the teacher’s gaze falling upon you sent shivers down your spine, for attention was an unwelcome spotlight on your fragile self-esteem. You yearned for invisibility during those long school days, wishing you could disappear into the worn pages of your textbooks. Even when knowledge danced on the tip of your tongue, you refused to raise your hand, unwilling to risk giving the wrong answer.

But listen closely, Little One, for the future holds a beautiful metamorphosis. That timid caterpillar will emerge as a vibrant butterfly, spreading wings of confidence and strength. The shy girl of yesterday will blossom into a self-assured elder, her voice clear and unwavering.

In the years following high school, you’ll shed your timidity like an old skin. As you enter college, you’ll find yourself brimming with newfound confidence. Gone will be the days of seeking refuge in the back of the classroom or silently rejoicing over your alphabetically advantageous surname. Instead, you’ll stride into each lecture hall with purpose, claiming your spot in the front row without hesitation. Your hand will shoot up eagerly whenever a question is posed, fueled by a genuine desire to engage rather than a fear of being wrong. The sting of an incorrect answer will no longer wound your pride; you’ll shrug it off as a learning opportunity and press forward. This resilience will become your new norm, replacing the crushing self-doubt of your younger years with a robust sense of self-assurance and intellectual curiosity.

Part II

Through life’s journey, you’ll experience the joys of marriage and motherhood, welcoming two beautiful children into the world. Though your marriage will eventually end in divorce, you’ll find yourself fortified by the resilience passed down through generations of strong women in your family.

Your commitment to social justice will flourish as you engage in various civic activities, such as attending anti-homelessness rallies, walking for charitable causes, and volunteering to support political campaigns. While you may never achieve the same level of recognition as iconic civil rights figures, you’ll take pride in your role as a dedicated community advocate.

As the years unfold, you’ll have the privilege of crossing paths with notable figures from various fields, including the acclaimed playwright August Wilson and Award-winning photographer and filmmaker Gordon Parks. In another memorable moment, while volunteering to feed people experiencing homelessness at Mitch Snyder’s CCNV shelter on Thanksgiving Day, you’ll have the opportunity to shake hands with Martin Sheen, one of your favorite actors. He, too, will be there that day to feed the homeless.

Significant experiences and achievements in media, politics, and writing will also mark your journey. Saturday Magazine, an hour-long television program, will feature you and your children in a segment focusing on single-parent families. You’ll attend a taping of the influential Oprah Winfrey show. As your life unfolds, you’ll discover a passion for politics, steering your career toward a field where you’ll frequently interact with politicians. This path will culminate in a significant encounter with Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States. These experiences will weave together to create a life well-lived, marked by personal growth, community engagement, and meaningful encounters.

Throughout these experiences, your love for writing will continue to grow. Your talent and perseverance will pay off as several pieces find their way into prestigious publications such as The Washington Post and The Afro-American. Pursuing your dream of becoming a journalist, you’ll seize an opportunity to write for a local weekly paper, The Metro Chronicle, where you’ll spend three years honing your skills.

Your creative journey will take an unexpected turn as you delve into the world of genealogy. This newfound interest will inspire you to author and publish a book, adding “published author” to your list of accomplishments. Your life’s journey will be a series of interconnected experiences, each building upon the last, leading to your achievements in media, politics, and writing.

You will have obstacles along the way and try to erase the bad memories of times when you were disrespected or humiliated by at least two employers. You’ll feel you have no recourse but to tolerate their mental abuse because you need your job. Little girl, if you could tell those employers now how you felt then what would you say? “$%@!#.”

Sorry, that would require a content warning on this post. Try again. “I’d ask the fifty-something-year-old executive who playfully slapped me on my butt at work one day, ‘How would you like it if someone in your daughter’s workplace did that to her? Don’t ever put your hands on me again, you old geezer.” But you were young and naïve, and that occurred decades before the “Me too” movement.

A second episode occurred a few years later at another workplace. I sometimes fantasize about what I wish I had said to the arrogant office director; I’ll call her Dr. Karen, who accused me of stealing a three-hole puncher, even though I told her that her assistant (who had already left for the day) told me she was borrowing it and taking it home to use over the weekend. I’d say to Karen, “You bigoted diva. Racism is in your DNA. You could have phoned your assistant and asked her if she had the hole puncher, but you didn’t because you were too eager to accuse the only black girl in the office of stealing it. And then, after I protested, you said that we – meaning black people – (I read very well between the lines) always want to play the victim. I wasn’t playing a victim, darn you. Without any cause or reason, you accused me of being a thief. When your assistant returned to work and produced the hole puncher, you thought it was beneath you to apologize because you never did. I should forgive and forget that incident, but acrimony remains.

Navigating life’s journey might be considerably smoother for all if we could peer into the future during our youth rather than reflect on our past experiences as elders.

But back to the present. While I couldn’t be at the ellipse in person last Tuesday, reveling and waving a sign, you can bet your bottom dollar I was there in spirit. Because self-pride and activism aren’t just about showing up physically – it’s about keeping that flame of change burning bright, no matter where you are or how creaky your joints might be. And let me tell you, my fire and desire for activism is still blazing like a bonfire on a summer night, and it probably will until it is finally extinguished.

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A Little This ‘n That

by on ·Political, School Days, The Way I See It

“We are not what we know but what we are willing to learn.” Mary Catherine Bateson ***

I spend a lot of time in introspection. (Yes, Muse, I have better things to do, but I’m writing this right now, so hush.) Lately, I’ve been thinking about school days or, as I prefer, the cute title of Spike Lee’s 1988 film, School Daze. Anyway, wordplay aside, I don’t mind admitting that I was not too fond of school, not any level of K through 12. One exception: kindergarten was okay. I had a beloved kindergarten teacher named Ms. Carrott. It’s incredible that I still remember the names of all my grade school teachers.

It wasn’t the learning that fueled my dislike of school; it was the annoying students who enjoyed picking on other kids. If you were skinny, fat, unattractive, or didn’t have a trendy wardrobe, you were a target. Today, those annoying students are called bullies; back in my day, they were just mean (bad-ass) kids.

I wasn’t the brightest student in any of my classes, and because of negative peer pressure, I didn’t want to appear that way, either. Nobody likes the teacher’s pet. However, because I effortlessly made the honor roll a few times during my school years, I knew I wasn’t the dumbest student either.

Although aggregating classmates were less prevalent in high school, most of the subjects I was required to take were as boring as music in a call queue. My least favorite classes were math – primarily algebra and geometry (Hated it! When have I ever used either of those? Someone tell me when?) Running close behind my disdain for math was U.S. History, U.S. Government, and Science. The Science teacher told us on the first day that to earn a passing grade in his class, we’d have to dissect a frog; otherwise, we’d flunk the course. Not in my wildest imagination could I fathom cutting up any animal, not even a dead one, back then. The thought made me sick to my stomach. I took the F.

My English class was more tolerable, and although diagramming sentences and conjugating verbs stressed me out, I enjoyed writing and literature. It probably helped that I had a secret crush on my English teacher, whose hazel eyes made him look much like a young Harrison Ford when I think about it now. I often babysat his and his wife’s five blond-haired, well-behaved children. My mother told me that several months after I graduated, had married, and moved out of town, he called one day to see if I still babysat. Mother said that when she told him I’d gotten married and moved away, he told her that he wished I’d told him and said that he and his wife would love to have attended my wedding if I had invited them. It was a different world back then, during the tumultuous sixties. I didn’t have a single friend who wasn’t black (that was by chance, not choice), and my thoughts at the time were that a white couple, even one who knew me well, wouldn’t care to attend a black girl’s wedding. (My Muse tells me I am disclosing TMI – too much information. Well, it is what it is, or in this case, it was what it was. Over the years, I’ve made friends of various ethnicities and racial groups, some of whom are as close as kinfolk.)

Although I wouldn’t say I liked the course when I studied U.S. Government in high school, it didn’t prevent me from admiring the people who held influential positions like the U.S. President. My adolescent mind told me that any man who won the presidential election had to be the smartest guy in the land. No women were vying for the job during my high school years. However, during the years after I graduated high school, the “Unbought and Unbossed” New York Representative Shirley Chisholm and Lenora Fulani on the New Alliance Party ticket would run for the highest office. I was registered to vote by then, and having sprouted my activist and quasi-feminist wings, I voted for both women.

As I matured and my interest in government and politics grew, I realized that not all Commanders-in-Chief, throughout history, had been playing with a full deck. Just because they held the title didn’t mean they were stable geniuses. And – not to name names – only God (and perhaps some unidentified co-conspirators) know what twist of fate facilitated the election of the 12-shy-of-a-dozen brain cells, morally bankrupt POTUS in 2016.

That same naïve school girl perceived Supreme Court Justices as the country’s most fair and unbiased citizens. She believed they were nothing less than modern-day King Solomons. After all, didn’t they solemnly swear (or affirm) to “administer justice without respect to persons, and do equal right to the poor and the rich,” and blah, blah? Well, so much for idealism. The current court – one woman and six men in black, in particular – that handed immunity to the former joker-in-chief squelched my admiration for SCOTUS.

My school days are decades behind me now. And everybody knows that holding a job title, whether a CEO or POTUS, doesn’t mean you’re incapable of corruption, trickery, and treachery. It doesn’t make you an ethical person, either.

“Learning is not attained by chance; it must be sought for with ardor and diligence.” -Abigail Adams.

 

 

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Flashing Back to School Days

by on ·Memory Lane, School Days

While dusting the volumes in my bookcase recently, guess what I discovered? Never mind guessing, I’ll tell you. It was my junior high school autograph book. I thought I had lost the 4-by-5 ½ paperback long ago, but there it was, squeezed like a dwarf between two hardcover biographies of historical giants Paul Robeson and Frederick Douglass. I was as happy by that find as I am when I unexpectedly discover a 20-dollar bill folded inside my jeans pocket. The pastel-colored pages of the little book have faded, and the front cover is missing, but most of the inscriptions of my former schoolmates are still legible. Only some scribbled in pencil are hard to read.

Days before graduating from Garnet Patterson Junior High School in 1963 (Okay, you can stop doing the math now.), I had purchased that autograph book, anticipating that cute remarks, witty jokes, and heartfelt well-wishes written by my classmates and some favorite teachers would fill the pages.

I carried the little book to another bookcase, where I removed a larger-sized autograph book. That one was signed by my peers from Dunbar High School. It has been years since I opened either of those books.

I brought my two keepsakes to the dining room table, sat down, and began perusing the pages. I wonder if today’s graduating students still maintain the tradition of signing autograph books at the end of the school year, or has that, like many traditions, become a thing of the past in this age of Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, and text messaging?

As I reread some of my junior and high school classmates’ messages, some seemed silly from the vantage point of age and maturity. Others revived pleasant memories of school days. Space won’t allow me to include many of the entries here, but I’ve listed some of my favorites below:

“To a nice chick. May you have the best of luck as you go thru (sic) life.” Ronnie Reece wrote that one. Following his message, Ronnie sketched a stick person walking through the years 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, and 1968. I remember that Ronnie was tall, handsome, and had a wonderful sense of humor.

Ponder “Mr. Soul” White wrote, “Good luck all the time.” Between the words “the” and “time,” he drew a large clock. Nice guy, Ponder.

I met Valerie Blackstone (nicknamed Val) in junior high school. She also attended Dunbar and remained my lifelong friend until she died in 2004. Her entry was a corny rhyme: “On the day of your graduation, you will receive an invitation from the board of education to increase the population. Do you dig this situation? A friend always, Val.” I imagine today’s contemporary teens would write that verse using more provocative language.

Adele Thomas and I grew up across the street from each other. After graduation, she married her high school sweetheart, Francis Smith, another Dunbar student. During Dunbar’s 35th class reunion, they were still married, and I suspect they remain together today. Adele wrote this. “The way to be seen is to stand up. The way to be heard is to speak up. The way to be appreciated is to shut up. Good luck.” Considering I was as quiet as a church mouse throughout my school years, I took her words to heart. With much determination in the years following graduation, I became the outspoken person some people wish would sit down and shut down.

Katherine E. Stanley, I remember being much more mature than other girls at school. True to her demeanor, she penned this, “Let your life be like arithmetic. Joys added. Sorrows subtracted. Friends multiplied. Love undivided. McKinley Tech bound.”

Another nice guy, Stephen Bennett, wrote, “To a very sweet girl. I wish you much luck in your future years.”

Harry Gough was one of our class’s brightest and most popular students. If I remember correctly, he always wore a suit to school, and I think some students considered him a nerd. I would not be surprised to learn that he became a college professor. He wrote “Best of Luck.”

I’ve maintained contact with some former alums, like Phillip Stevens. I knew Phil before high school, just like I did Val. We three have history. We were mutual friends, playmates, and schoolmates. Phil was another ambitious and active student. In addition to being a member of the military band, he was quite the athlete on Dunbar’s football and baseball teams. Besides our lifelong friendship, Phil is one of my dear Facebook friends. He wrote in my junior high book, “A friend of Val’s is a friend of mine,” and in my high school yearbook, “Always remember your junior and high school friend.” I always will.

Another athlete, Mevin Caldwell inscribed, “May God ever be with you and help you in everything you try to do.”

My namesake, Loretta Gaines, was also a bestie. She, Val, and I had our own clique. Loretta wrote, “To my favorite sister. Always stay as sweet and cool as you are. Wishing you the best of luck.”

Schoolmates weren’t the only ones who signed my books. Some of my relatives had their say. One cousin, Velda Parker, wrote, “Remember me. I’m the one who loves you.”

Some of the graduation cards I received remain tucked inside the back cover of my High School Yearbook. One came from Uncle Lucky and Aunt Jennie, another from Uncle Alton and Aunt Imogene. And then – there is the one from my then pen pal (who would become my husband two years later). I was a senior in high school, and he was in the U.S. Air Force, serving the second of his four-year enlisted service in Germany. The graduation card he sent me contained the answer to the question I asked in the last letter I sent him before graduating. “No, I’m so sorry, I can’t return stateside to take you to the prom.”

As shy as I was in school, this former shrinking violet would have blossomed while attending the prom with my military beau wearing his dress blues.

My mom wrote the most memorable prose in my autograph book. I’ve been unable to learn the author of that verse, but the words will remain with me forever:  “Dear Daughter,  Remember, wherever you be, be noble. Whatever you do, do well. Whenever you speak, speak kindly. Bring joy wherever you dwell. Love Mother.”

After reading my way down memory lane, I returned both books to the bookcase. Those school days seem like a hundred years ago. Come to think of it, it’s darn near close!

 

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Extolling the Joy of Friendship

by on ·Aging, Friendship, School Days

Last night I received a wonderful surprise. I could have done a happy dance, but my bad knee wasn’t having it. The surprise was a phone call from my long-time best friend, Loretta. We are septuagenarians now, but we’ve known each other since we were young teenagers. Yeah, that long ago.

We have the same first name, although she nicknamed me Retsie when we were in high school. Nevertheless,  we called each other Sis back then, and still do. In our yesteryears, I knew her family members, and she knew mine. We have shared memories from our high school years, like the time when she and I got called to the principal’s office for circulating a petition demanding that students be allowed to wear sneakers to school (or tennis shoes as they were frequently called back then). That’s right, as shy as I was, that was my initial baby step toward social activism.

Loretta and I had a third “sister” in our clique while in high school, Valerie. I knew Valerie years before I met Loretta. Our friendship went back to grade school. It was through Valerie that I met another life-long friend, Phillip. Phil, as we call him, was a real-life friend before he became one of my Facebook friends.

Sadly, Valerie died in 2004. Anyone who has lost a close friend will know what I mean when I say it is like losing a family member. Over time, our losses may get easier. We learn to live with them, but the space a dear person held in our heart remains forever vacant.

After graduating from high school, time, distance, and life-stage transitions separated our trio, but Loretta, Valeria, and I remained in touch through phone calls and Christmas cards. On at least one or two occasions, I babysat Loretta’s children before having children of my own.

Valerie and I lost contact for a few years but reconnected in 2001. During that time, she persuaded me to attend our 35th high school reunion. I was happy that we spent that time together. Sadly, Valerie died of breast cancer the week before Christmas, 2004.

The last time that Loretta and I saw each other was at Valerie’s funeral. We vowed then to maintain closer contact, but our life journeys intervened again. About ten years ago, I misplaced Loretta’s phone number and lost touch with her. Still, I thought of her often and prayed that she was well and that we would reconnect.

When cell phones became popular, I wasn’t one of those people who gave up my landline and I kept the same number for over 40 years. Fortunately, Loretta, kept that number, too, and the answer to my prayer came when she called me last night. Reunited, we reminisced, laughed, and carried on like high schoolers. We also plan to get together in the near future.

Anyone who has a lifelong best friend understands the joy of growing together over the years with someone who knows you almost as well as you know yourself. What beats having a close friend who knows your early history? High School. Dating and boyfriends. Marriages. Children. Divorces. Some friendships are short-lived; others last a lifetime. But, there is nothing like having a lifelong best friend and confidant with whom you can have candid conversations and who knows your thoughts on most issues even before you express them. A friend who understands your moods, who shares your low spells and the high points. A friend who knows your flaws and accepts your imperfections without being judgmental. A friend who, after a disagreement, has no problem saying, “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.” A friend who moves on without carrying grudges. I have and have had friends like that.

Unfortunately, like most people my age, I mourn the loss of many dear friends – male and female – who have preceded me in death, and I appreciate every day that I can spend time with those friends who are still around.

As author Edna Buchanon says, “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.”

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Driving Like Miss Daisy

by on ·Driver's Education, School Days

Memory is a powerful force, and anything can trigger a flashback. Although it seems like a hundred years ago since I was in school, whenever I see a car displaying a “Student Driver” sign, my mind goes back to my high school days.

I am a skinny, timid, and awkward teenaged girl. As one of my electives, I choose Mr. Kay’s Driver’s Education course. My decision isn’t based solely on what I learn about him from asking other students – most say that he is one of their favorite teachers – I want to learn to drive.

Mr. Kay is short and stout, but whenever he is spotted entering the school building traditionally wearing a well-pressed suit and stylish gentlemen’s hat, Mr. Kay exemplifies cool. In the classroom, he is not only thorough but also one of the kindest and most patient teachers. The fact that I have my first disheartening driving experience while taking Mr. Kay’s course is my own fault.

About mid-way into the semester, after Mr. Kay is satisfied that our class has learned automobile basics, traffic signs, and the rules of the road, he begins taking us, students, out to experience driving on the streets. On the day of my initiation drive, I am one of three students in the car. He tells each student what route to take, lets that person drive a short distance, and then instructs the pupil to pull over. And then, a different student gets to drive.

After a boy who is impressing us other students with his driving skill descends a ramp on North Capitol Street, Mr. Kay instructs him to pull over on the shoulder, turn off the engine, and then exchange places with me. I am sitting in the back seat beside another female. When the confident, smooth operator opens the rear door and waits for me to get out so that he can climb in, I sit there. Although I have been contemplating my first drive, suddenly, my heart is racing, and I am in a near state of panic. Mr. Kay looks at me from the front passenger seat, and motions with his head for me to get behind the wheel. “Come on.” He says. “You’re next.”

Fighting to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, I slide one of my quivering legs over the seat and then the other, and although I am having difficulty steadying my feet beneath me, I climb out of the back seat and into the front.

Mr. Kay senses my nervousness and says, “You’ll do fine.” His encouragement gives me a tiny boost of self-assurance. “Just relax, but be attentive.” He says.

Once settled in the driver’s seat, I execute all of the steps I learned in class. Check the rearview and side mirrors and make modifications if necessary. Adjust the driver’s seat. Turn on the car. (There were no seat belts back then. They were not required until after 1966.) Feeling satisfied that I have performed all of the essential steps, I turn on the ignition, switch on the left turn signal, and glance at Mr. Kay for reassurance. He nods indicating that I should proceed.

I position both hands on the steering wheel in the 10 and 2 o’clock positions as we were taught and check the mirrors once more before putting the car in gear and pulling off. Seeing no traffic behind us that would require me to merge, I exhale a sigh of relief.

And then – instead of gradually pulling off the shoulder and proceeding at a moderate speed into the nearest lane, I step on the gas pedal. Suddenly, the small car races like a speeding bullet diagonally across the roadway and enters into the farthest lane from the shoulder. Simultaneously, Mr. Kay jerks his head around to look out of the window behind me and then glares wide-eyed back at me. As I slow the car down and straighten it in the left lane, I steal a quick glance at Mr. Kay before focusing again on the road ahead of us. I ask myself, Is it my imagination that his coffee dark complexion suddenly looks chalky white?

I’m mentally patting myself on the back for getting off to a commendable start. But the “Good job” that I expect to hear from Mr. Kay does not happen. Instead, his normal baritone voice shrieks in high soprano, “OH MY GOD! What are you doing?”

Is this a Jesus, take the wheel moment?

“You can’t just pull off the shoulder like that and fly across to the far lane. You ease into the nearest lane and then if the road is clear, you make your way cautiously over to the left lane. If another vehicle had been coming, you would have gotten us all killed.”

Embarrassed is not sufficient to describe my feeling. I purse my lips together and curl them inward, but resist the impulse to lower my eyes; instead, I keep my attention on the road ahead, raise my foot gently off the pedal and let the car drop below the speed limit.

As he continues to admonish me, it is evident that my action has plucked Mr. Kay’s last nerve, and he is struggling to maintain his calm.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But…but I looked in the mirror.”

During his follow-up barrage of do and don’t instructions, I think I hear him say something about remembering to check blind spots. But I am too busy wondering whether my blunder will eliminate my time behind the wheel for the remainder of the semester or worse yet earn me a failing grade. What student fails Driver’s Education? That’s like failing physical ed.

So when Mr. Kay says, “Pull over to the side of the road. We’re changing drivers,” protesting does not enter my mind. Had Shakespeare written a closing dialog for this scene, it would likely be, “The lady does not protest, methinks. And we know why.”

I survive the rest of the semester without incident and pass the course.

When I look back now on that first driving experience, I take comfort in knowing that I probably wasn’t the only student who gave Mr. Kay a near heart attack during his career as Dunbar’s driver’s ed teacher. And I will always remember him as one of my favorite teachers.

I’ve had my license for years now, and I’ve learned many lessons about driving. Next time I will tell you why if you see an old-school looking lady on the road driving like Miss Daisy, it’s likely to be me.

 

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