The Art Teacher Who Taught Me To Believe In Myself

I may have been the only 3rd grader who hated recess. It was the part of school I dreaded. Academics-wise, I was great, a total overachiever. But socially, I felt so alone, and it was always at lunch and recess where I felt it the most. 

At recess, kids would run around the playground and the blacktop playing basketball, double dutch, and walk around talking with their friends. I was always on edge feeling like I needed to try to look like I fit in so people didn’t think I was always standing alone by myself. I guess it felt depressing and I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. 

At one point, I asked the cafeteria ladies if they’d just let me sit inside the cafeteria while the other kids went outside for recess. On the days they’d let me, it was always such a sigh of relief to just be alone and not trying to fit in when I knew I didn’t. Something about being alone from my own doing felt more tolerable than being rejected. 

I was perfectly content just sitting on the edge of those long cafeteria benches and swinging my feet back and forth. I remember looking down at how my feet couldn't touch the ground yet. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I know that was my way of emotionally regulating: creating a rhythm for my body that I could feel some calm, comfort, and safety in. 

Needing to go out to recess

There were some days that for whatever reason, I wasn’t allowed to stay inside. Maybe there wasn’t a person around who could watch me, or maybe an 8-year old girl sitting there alone in an empty cafeteria while all the other kids were playing outside was too depressing for the adults to see. 

We’d have different teachers proctor the recess to make sure everyone was okay and well behaved, or to check up on a kid who inevitably tripped and fell on the blacktop or off one of the obstacles on the jungle gym. I’d just pace around by myself so it looked like I was going somewhere or doing something. 

The pull up bar

One day I noticed there was this pull up bar in the jungle gym. I remember walking under it and stretching my arms overhead, but I was still too short to reach it. I jumped as high as I could and managed to grasp the bar, hanging my little body a foot above the ground.

I was determined to pull myself up. I gripped it tight, took a deep breath, and flexed my arms with all my might, imagining my chin getting above the bar. To anyone watching, though, they’d have seen this girl flailing around, somehow exhausting herself by doing what seemed like nothing. 

It was such a powerless feeling to not be able to pull my little 70-pound body up, and not even see my arms bend even a little bit to give me some hope that it could be possible. As much as I wanted a chin up, had no progress to show for it. 

The Presidential Fitness Challenge

I wanted so badly to be able to do a chin up. It just seemed like such a feat. That, and there was this annual Presidential Youth Fitness Challenge I really wanted to do well at. They’d test the whole grade on a series of activities. We’d be challenged to see how many chin ups we could do, how long we could hold ourselves with our chins above a pull up bar, how flexible we could reach on this  box seat contraption, how many sit ups we could do in a minute, and how fast we could run a mile. (Apparently the Challenge was phased out of schools in 2013, which made me sad to hear.)

Ms. Muckleman’s chin up advice

Ms. Muckleman, the art teacher, was one of the proctors at recess. She could see me practicing and one day came over and asked me about it. I expressed my frustration with feeling so weak. After hearing my determination, she said she knew a way I could get stronger. She suggested that when my mom bought gallons of water that I lift them a few times with each arm, like a bicep curl. 

Before you knew it, I was practicing every day before and after school. First, my little prepubescent arms I couldn't even lift a full gallon of water. I had to drink a few cups of it first so I could even lift a half gallon’s worth. Then, I gradually worked my way up to a full gallon, and eventually I would lift one in each hand at the same time. 

Soon enough I was on the playground doing chin ups more than anyone else. I was so proud—I may not have had friends, but at least I had the ability to pull myself up to the bar.

Hoping the work would pay off

By the time the Presidential Fitness Test came around, I was so excited to show my new pull up skills off  to the rest of the class. After all, I was too slow to stand out in the mile run, the flexibility sit and reach I didn’t have a chance at, but the pull ups? This was my chance to be the best at something.

There was another girl in my grade, Renee Fazekas. She was a redhead and was diabetic. That’s all I remember about her. Well, that, and that she somehow managed to do more chin ups than me. It pissed me off. After all, I was the one lifting gallons of water before and after school and the one out there at recess practicing. All I saw her do at recess is hang out with her friends. 

I was so jealous. Not of her friends. But of her being stronger than me. But I’d let it fuel me the next year to keep practicing so I could try to outdo her. (I honestly can’t remember if I ever did.)

Turns out Ms. Muckleman was a celebrity

Aside from turning out to be my fitness and motivational coach, Ms. Muckleman was also a celebrity. You see, at one point, my mom was dating this guy, and one day he said that he too was in Ms. Musckleman’s art class as a kid. I couldn't believe that—after all, this guy was old! 

I was so excited to come to recess the next day and see if she remembered his name. Somehow, she did! I was so amazed. I couldn't believe that she’d been doing this for that long. And now it felt like she was a real celebrity. After all, when you’re a kid, a celebrity is just someone a lot of people know. And now, this random guy knew her. So then I felt cool by association: Not only do I know a celebrity, but I even have her for a teacher. 

A glimpse into her art class

But Ms. Muckleman didn’t intend to be a fitness coach or a celebrity. She was the one to teach us primary and secondary colors. It was through her that I learned the beauty of the color wheel, and realized that green was my favorite color. 

She was always so calming, never overbearing. She gave us just the right amount of guidance and freedom, and with teaching art to kids, that’s a difficult task.

In Ms. Muckleman’s classroom, there weren’t normal desks, but two long tables running lengthwise down the room with stools on both sides for us to sit on. Something about the stools made it all so much more fun. Artists need room to move, to kneel, to stand, and Ms. Muckleman’s class was a safe space where it was encouraged. In that room, I wasn’t just a kid doing art—I was an artist.

How to draw a perfect circle 

I remember her advice about drawing an even circle. Instead of drawing it with one swoop, she’d model how it was better to draw them with two halves. That way, we aren’t drawing half of the circle with our hands moving backwards and probably turning out uneven. I was fascinated: Even a perfect circle has two seams.

That day with the tick

There was one class where she was teaching at the front of the room, and one of the girls in the front left row of the stools, Renee, as a matter of fact, interrupted her in the middle of her teaching a lesson saying something about her head. 

Ms. Muckleman stopped teaching and walked over to Renee, and took a good 20 seconds to part her hair to see if there was anything. She didn’t see anything, so she continued with her lesson. A few minutes later, Renee called her over again, asking her to take another look. 

Side note: I doubt I acknowledged it at the time, but it’s so admirable the bravery and courage of this girl. Only 8 or 9 years old, but having such confidence in her truth that she was not only okay interrupting the class once, but twice because she knew something just didn’t feel right, even after the adult in the room said everything looked fine. I admire that girl’s sense of knowing herself while being unafraid of what the rest of  the class thought.

For the second time, Ms. Muckleman walked over, so gentle and kind, not frustrated or annoyed in the least, and took another look. There was such an awkward silence in the class. This isn’t something you see every day: a teacher standing over a student using both hands to part her hair to see if there was anything to be concerned about, all in the middle of a teaching lesson. 

Just when we were losing patience with the silence, Ms. Muckleman pulled her hands up from Renee’s head with her eyes glued to her fingertips pinching what she said was a tick.

It felt like such a Mother Hen type of moment: here’s a lady that’s here to take care of us, even stuff that’s not related to art. She had a motherly vibe about her, and it was comforting. She was so complimenting and so encouraging.

I doubt they teach that in art school. 

The lessons she imparted to this day

It’s been over 20 years now since those moments on the playground and sitting in her art class, but I think about Ms. Muckleman often.

When I moved into my apartment, one of the first things I did was install a pull up bar, as it’s something I do for fun these days. Something about lifting my body weight is still pretty fun and incredible to me. (I even have a friend’s son who I send a video each year of me doing one pull up for each year older he gets. Here’s another video, too.)

Ms. Muckleman helped me find a love for fitness, for drawing circles one half at a time, and made me feel seen and like someone believed in me. And to this day, I think of Ms. Muckleman, the art teacher who taught me so much more than art. Maybe the art of passion. The art of practice and dedication and believing in myself. Thank you, Ms. Muckleman.

Retired

A few years ago, I heard that Ms. Muckleman retired. I have no idea of her whereabouts, or if she's still with us, but her lessons stay with me all these years later. If anyone knows how to reach her, I’d love to share this article.

Thank you, teachers

Thank you to all those teachers who find the passion in their students, and foster it, even if it’s outside of the curriculum. It’s those subtle, unplanned moments that are the ones I remember most. And I’m so grateful to her for them. 

Stay tuned: each day in September I’ll be sharing a story of a teacher who left a mark on me growing up as part of my Teacher Appreciation Project. Teachers have a hard job, more so today than ever before, and it’s important to me  that I share the ways they’ve made a lasting impact on me, even all these years later.