Sometime in the early days of seventh grade, when she was a new student at Stuart Country Day School in Princeton, Molly came home and declared that there was a teacher who was rather mean. She was a bit scared of Mrs. McCarthy, she said, because she yelled at her and her friends in the hallways.##M:[more]##
Knowing my children’s tendencies to exaggerate on occasion, and knowing the Sacred Heart tradition of gentle admonishment, I believed there was more to the story. Upon closer questioning, Molly admitted, well, she doesn’t exactly yell, but she does tell us to get to class.
And why? I pressed.
Because we’re late.
Oh, so there’s a reason.
Yes. But she teaches eighth grade English and I really hope I don’t get her.
Since Mrs. McCarthy taught both middle and upper school English at Stuart and was the chair of the English department, there was no way around it. Molly did get Mrs. McCarthy for eighth grade English, much to her initial chagrin. But it soon became apparent that Molly, who had always loved English class, loved it even more under Mrs. McCarthy’s tutelage. There were some rough spots, especially when she brought home a paper with a grade that she did not like. But the grade was always fair, and the comments and suggestions for revision were always on point. Molly worked hard for Mrs. McCarthy, and like a little flower being given lots of sunlight and water, her gift for writing flourished. Her voice began to emerge, developing confidence and flair. She was chosen as one of the girls to write and deliver the narrative for Lessons and Carols, the Christmas service for the Stuart community and parents.
One day last winter Molly came home and told me we had to go shopping immediately to buy blueberries and shredded wheat. Sure, I said, but I wondered why the sudden urgency. Mrs. McCarthy eats fresh blueberries with her cereal every morning, Molly told me. And at mid-morning, for snack, she eats shredded wheat from a little Tupperware container. It looks good and healthy and I want to try it.
I E-mailed Mrs. McCarthy, teasing her that she needed to be very conscious about how she conducted herself, because she was being watched very carefully. Not only was Molly absorbing her lessons of language and literature on a daily basis, she was looking to her as a role model, right down to noting what kinds of foods she was eating. It’s a good thing it’s blueberries and shredded wheat, I said, and not donuts and cake.
I saved her response: “Unbelievable! I am complimented beyond words. Molly is so special: smart, hardworking, funny, observant. (Yes, it’s oatmeal with blueberries and organic mini-wheats.) I know that she is one of those students whose accomplishments over the years, in school and out of school, will delight me with the unique and creative flair she brings to everything she touches. Thank you for the anecdotes: they have made my year!”
Mrs. McCarthy helped make Molly’s year as well. When it came time for eighth grade graduation, Molly was one of the girls to write the class history delivered at graduation. Molly left Stuart, the summer flew by, and she began her freshman year of high school in Plainsboro. Then we learned from one of our friends that Mrs. McCarthy was ill. She had breast cancer. At this point, Molly had just written and published her first Suburban Teen column in this newspaper.
Molly, I said. Mrs. McCarthy would be so proud of you. You have to send her a get-well card. Tell her how much she meant to you and how much you learned from her last year. Cut out a clipping of your column and include it so she can read it. She would be so happy to know what you are doing with your writing.
A few weeks later, Molly received a response from Mrs. McCarthy. The writing on the envelope looked familiar. It was the same precise script that had lined the margins of Molly’s English papers. It was sealed in the back with a beautiful pressed flower.
“Thank you for your very sweet note,” wrote Mrs. McCarthy. “It truly was my pleasure to teach you last year, and I am flattered to think I helped influence your ambitions and academic work. We had some fun at the same time, too, didn’t we?”
Then the voice of the English teacher emerges. “I loved your article and your concept for the series. Your honesty and clarity will help lots of teenagers sort out answers to some of the same questions. I liked the way you moved through your ideas in your piece: it is a thorough look at the beginning of freshman year but takes a unique and valid position.”
She goes on to ask Molly to keep sending her articles: “I loved hearing your voice as I read your words.”
This past Sunday, I was going through E-mails after the Thanksgiving weekend when I read one from a friend at Stuart. She told me Mrs. McCarthy — Victoria Flournoy McCarthy, 54, a graduate of Stuart who had taught there for 12 years — had died on Thanksgiving Day.
I was stunned. I cried alone, and then, when Molly woke up, and I told her, we cried together. Mrs. McCarthy’s note had made no mention of her illness. She had sounded chipper and upbeat. In asking Molly to keep sending her articles, there was the promise of a future. We had presumed that her illness was under control and her recovery was on track. We had presumed incorrectly.
I could only imagine how her family was feeling, her husband, a daughter out of college, a son still in high school. The middle school head at Stuart, also Mrs. McCarthy’s friend, told me that knowing the possibilities, she had spent every moment she could with her children and family. She also told me that Mrs. McCarthy had shared Molly’s note with her, and that Mrs. McCarthy had been tickled to hear from Molly and to know how much she had meant to her.
We will all miss Mrs. McCarthy and feel lucky that she was a part of our lives. God needed an English teacher, it seems, and Heaven’s poetry will be all the richer because she will be there writing it.
