Mrs. H

I have been wondering lately if I am making my 12-year-old self smile. Do you ever think like that? Maybe it’s just me.

12-year-old Ariel was just starting 7th grade at F. Middle School, which no longer exists. I find it both romantic and haunting that the building where I shed many a tear and hid behind many bumps of acne, no longer exists. The name FMS does but it is now branded across a newer, shinier building in which I have not yet stepped foot into. However, the 4-floor brick building with a 3 lane yellow pool in the basement and a sky-lit library is no more.

When I was 12 I actually liked science. Well, in full disclosure I loved Mrs. H. She was a first-year teacher with a shiny new wedding ring and brown pixie cut hair. She loved science, and because of her passion, it was easy for me to love it back. A year from then everything would change. I began growing my armpit hair right around the time my allegiance would forever be to English and the Language Arts.

If you ask me who were my favorite teachers in middle and high school, I would name all my former English teachers, save for Mrs. H. I mean I did love our 7th grade English teacher Mrs. P dearly. In fact, we continued our friendship for a few years outside of the classroom. But Mrs. H’s quiet and reserved nature, yet passionate and boldness of her teaching of the sciences left her entire class with an impression I won’t soon forget.

She wasn’t loud or demanding, she was actually quiet, almost shy. Not knowing then the difference between an extrovert and introvert, as well as not knowing then that you can indeed be an introverted speaker, I thought these many layers of her personality were pretty cool. Captivating when she spoke, but calm and “chill” (mind I remind you that it was 2002 and “chill” might have been our word of the year if it wasn’t for the weapons of mass destruction and 9/11 being so fresh in our minds), when she was at her desk.

It wasn’t that she was fake when teaching us, she was just using her gifts in a different way, but didn’t try to be that all the time. In fact, I never saw her being any different. At least what I could see, she never tried to be the bubbly Mrs. R down the hall whom everyone immediately was attached to or the rough disciplinarian down the other hallway. She was who she was.

Which was a great comfort to me, because everything was so unsteady outside of that classroom. I had just started a new school, on top of starting a new church. This church had a youth group of 100 people, 98 more than my previous one.

I was also learning how to unlock a locker, grab the correct books and notebooks for the next 2-3 classes and then find the right classroom or gym (we had 3) in under 5 minutes. Oh, and I was learning how to play the flute in a band the size of 75 or so members. At my elementary school, there were maybe 12 of us. 3 flutes. In 7th grade, I was one of the 13 or so flute players. That’s enough to make any preteen gulp.

My 12th year wasn’t the best but it was a far cry from the worst. I cried a lot, swore under my breath a lot, and wondered if I would even make it out alive, but I did! I made the highest grades I would ever make in middle school that year. My friend group was starting to change no matter how badly I held on. It would be 3 more years until the group changed again as we entered the high school building but it was there smack dab in the middle of 7th grade, I remember becoming square with the fact that it was about the quality of friendships, not quantity.

Growing up my aunt always sent me journals every year for Christmas. But at age 12, I began to really dive into them head first. Pushing the stickers and gel pens out of the way, I really began to write about things. Not just my day-to-day activities, but my reactions and emotions about the events. I fell in love with writing and having a sacred place where I could share my thoughts and feelings. I then began bravely sharing some of those on my Xanga, which soon led to a small blog. And today, it has finally cultivated into a website. This website.

Newly created with a “.com” address and a beautiful design by my husband, this is me being brave. Brave like Mrs. H always taught us. She never pushed science on us, but she did push us. She pushed us to be the best people we could be. I told her two years later that I didn’t like science anymore. She never asked why. She asked what I did love, to which I responded with a squeaky voice, “English… Writing.”

“Then Ariel,” she said with a smile. “Pursue that with your whole heart.”

So this is me. This is me doing the very thing that sets my soul and heart on fire.
This is me choosing faith over fear.
Just like I did when I made my private blog, public.
Just like I did when I finally put my real name on it.

This is me inviting you into my little corner of the internet.

And so… welcome to my newly created website! And to my old friends and fans, welcome back! I am so glad that you’re here with me.
I hope today that you’re able to do at least one thing that makes your 12 year old self smile.

I just did.