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Subject: [FOLKLORE] Re: Chicken Soup for the Soul: Home Delivery
Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 11:59:40 EDT
Mrs. Virginia DeView, Where Are You?
We were sitting in her classroom, giggling, jabbing
each other and talking about the latest information of the
day, like the peculiar purple-colored mascara Cindy was
wearing. Mrs. Virginia DeView cleared her throat and asked
us to hush.
"Now," she said smiling, "we are going to discover our
professions." The class seemed to gasp in unison. Our
professions? We stared at each other. We were only 13 and
14 years old. This teacher was nuts.
That was pretty much how the kids looked at Virginia
DeView, her hair swirled back in a bun and her large, buck
teeth gaping out of her mouth. Because of her physical
appearance, she was always an easy target for snickers and
cruel jokes among students.
She also made her students angry because she was
demanding. Most of us just overlooked her brilliance.
"Yes, you will all be searching for your future
professions," she said with a glow on her face - as though
this was the best thing she did in her classroom every
year. "You will have to do a research paper on your
upcoming career. Each of you will have to interview
someone in your field, plus give an oral report."
All of us went home confused. Who knows what they
want to do at 13? I had narrowed it down, however. I
liked art, singing and writing. But I was terrible in art,
and when I sang my sisters screamed: "Oh, please shut up."
The only thing left was writing.
Every day in her class, Virginia DeView monitored us.
Where were we? Who had picked their careers? Finally,
most of us had selected something; I picked print
journalism. This meant I had to go interview a true-blue
newspaper reporter in the flesh, and I was terrified.
I sat down in front of him barely able to speak. He
looked at me and said: "Did you bring a pencil or pen?"
I shook my head.
"How about some paper?"
I shook my head again.
Finally, I think he realized I was terrified, and I
got my first big tip as a journalist. "Never, never go
anywhere without a pen and paper. You never know what
you'll run into."
For the next 90 minutes, he filled me with stories of
robberies, crime sprees and fires. He would never forget
the tragic fire where four family members were killed in
the blaze. He could still smell their burning flesh, he
said, and he would never forget that horrid story.
A few days later, I gave my oral report totally from
memory, I had been so mesmerized. I got an A on the entire
project.
As we neared the end of the school year, some very
resentful students decided to get Virginia DeView back for
the hard work she put us through. As she rounded a corner,
they shoved a pie into her face as hard as they could. She
was slightly injured physically, but it was emotionally
that she was really hurt. She didn't return to school for
days. When I heard the story, I felt a deep, ugly pit fill
my stomach. I felt shame for myself and my fellow students
who had nothing better to do than pick on a woman because
of how she looked, rather than appreciate her amazing
teaching skills.
Years later, I forgot all about Virginia DeView and
the careers we selected. I was in college scouting around
for a new career. My father wanted me in business, which
seemed to be sound advice at the time, except that I had no
sense of business skills whatsoever. Then I remembered
Virginia DeView and my desire at 13 to be a journalist. I
called my parents.
"I'm changing my major," I announced.
There was a stunned silence on the end of the phone.
"What to?" my father finally asked.
"Journalism."
I could tell in their voices that my parents were very
unhappy, but they didn't stop me. They just reminded me
how competitive the field was and how all my life I had
shied away from competition.
This was true. But journalism did something to me; it
was in my blood. It gave me the freedom to go up to total
strangers and ask what was going on. It trained me to ask
questions and get answers in both my professional and
personal life. It gave me confidence.
For the past 12 years, I've had the most incredible
and satisfying reporting career, covering stories from
murders to airplane crashes and finally settling in on my
fort‚. I loved to write about the tender and tragic
moments of people's lives because somehow I feel it helped
them in some way.
When I went to pick up my phone one day, an incredible
wave of memories hit me and I realized that had it not been
for Virginia DeView, I would not be sitting at that desk.
She'll probably never know that without her help, I
would not have become a journalist and a writer. I suspect
I would have been floundering in the business world
somewhere, with great unhappiness shadowing me each day. I
wonder now how many other students in her class benefited
from that career project.
I get asked all the time: "How did you pick
journalism?"
"Well, you see, there was this teacher..." I always
start out. I just wish I could thank her.
I believe that when people reflect back over their
school days, there will be this faded image of a single
teacher - their very own Virginia DeView. Perhaps you can
thank her before it's too late.
by Diana L. Chapman
from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and
Kimberly Kirberger
No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without prior written consent from
Chicken Soup for the Soul Enterprises, Inc.
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