A Tale of Two Teachers: Why Educators Matter and Should Get Their Own Oscars

Demi Moore with her Golden Globe, Miss Sharon Ringle (Wiener) my 2nd grade teacher with her smile

I was disappointed that Demi Moore did not win her Oscar, as her Golden Globe speech was so meaningful and her comeback story after decades in the business with people underestimating her was truly inspiring. The Academy Awards celebrate people already in the spotlight, but I spent that Sunday attending the funeral of someone from a profession that often goes unheralded—my second grade teacher.

I had Miss Ringle back at Coventry Elementary School in Cleveland. Her warm smile, caring nature, and gentle encouragement meant so much to my seven-year-old self, especially as that was the year of my parents' divorce—which back then in The Sixties was a shocking and rare occurrence.

Sharon was actually my mother's cousin. My Grandma Gert had six sisters and a brother; Sharon was the youngest daughter of the eldest sister Sylvia. I don't remember much about what Miss Ringle taught me academically, but her presence in my life came at precisely the moment I needed her most.

My parents were considered the golden couple—my father Don the brilliant and handsome doctor, my mother Jeanne the beautiful and talented actress. My brother Tom and I were born at the University of Chicago where my father was a gastroenterology resident. One of my first memories was seeing my mother star as Hermia in A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Court Theater, with fairies from the play putting me on their lap. This was when my mother was in the early days of Second City and starred with comedian David Steinberg in The Hamlet of Stepney Green, a Jewish version of Hamlet.

My parents-- The Golden Couple, Jeanne as Hermia at The Court Theater, Jeanne, Carl, and Tommy

During the custody battle that ensued (again, rare back then), my father's lawyer insisted that my mother's true desire was not to be a mother, but to go to New York and act on Broadway. To prove how unfit she was as a mother, my best friend Chris' mother was called to testify. Mrs. Pierce described how one day I had knocked on her door and asked if Chris could go to school with me. She then had to tell me school had started an hour ago. My mother had forgotten to wake me.

I don't remember much about the mile I had to walk to Coventry each day, but I remember being uncoordinated at sports, shy with girls, and confused about why my father was no longer living in our apartment on Overlook, but in a high-rise building in another neighborhood. Miss Ringle likely knew what was happening with my home life, but I remember feeling cared about and a little bit special every time I saw cousin Sharon's smile.

At her funeral, it was clear I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Sharon would go on to teach for over thirty years at Coventry, and the Rabbi spoke about generations of former students who would stop Sharon on the street to tell her how much she meant to them, often introducing her to their own children. By then she was Mrs. Weiner, having met the love of her life, Yoash, at a symphony at Case Western University. Those who spoke at the graveside talked about Sharon's love of art, music, and culture, and how her passion for such things was infectious with her students.

In fact, I still have in my office one of my few artistic achievements: a framed finger painting which had been selected for the 2nd Coventry Art Show, apparently done during my "blue period." That would be the peak of my achievement in the visual arts, but looking back, it was a sign that maybe I was good at something.

Fingerpainting during my Blue period for Miss Ringle; our mother, our step-father Dr. #2, and, Tommy; me in fifth grade having survived Mrs. Ifft for English

Both my parents remarried a year after the divorce. My brother and I moved to Pittsburgh when my mother married another gastroenterologist, Dr. Richard Wechsler. (My first joke would be: my mother never gets divorced—she just gets referred to another husband. Ba-dum-bump.)

I did not have the same experience at Wightman Elementary School in Pittsburgh, where my most vivid memory was having my face whitewashed with snow on the playground. I also remember sitting in my mother's car after a disappointing report card. She explained that while I might not be as athletic as my younger brother already was, or as good-looking, or as smart, I saw the world differently—like her father, my Grandpa Jack—and that could take me places others wouldn't go. My Grandpa Jack was a jukebox impresario in Cleveland who apparently had helped kick-start the careers of Frank Sinatra and Harry Belafonte.

As evidence of my unique perspective, she told me how they thought I was slow in kindergarten, but she knew I was a genius because I had tied together all the furniture in our living room with kite string. She interpreted this as my way of trying to keep the family together.

Sensing I needed something beyond a public school education, my mother enrolled me in Pittsburgh's most elite prep school, Shady Side Academy, where I still joke I was beaten up by richer kids. I was held back a year and ended up having Mrs. Ifft for fourth grade English.

Mrs. Ifft was the opposite of Miss Ringle. I don't recall ever seeing her smile, and she was a taskmaster who went over every sentence I wrote for correct grammar. It was in her class, however, that I wrote my first poem: "I locked one door and then the other, to keep away my little brother." And my first short story about how penguins got their suits featuring an oddball penguin named Stanley who dressed formally in a tuxedo to show off and then fell into the icy water.

I remember vaguely winning the 5th grade English award at my graduation from Shady Side Junior School. Having been told when I auditioned for choir that I should never sing, and when I tried out for soccer that dribbling was probably not in my wheelhouse, writing seemed to be the one thing I might be good at.

Decades later, I was working as the head writer at NBC on a spin-off of Saved By The Bell. A writer's assistant would write on the board an outline that the team of writers would dictate. At one point, there was an argument in the room over where a comma should be placed in a sentence. I snapped, "I couldn't ride a bike until I was 15, I can't catch a football, but I had Mrs. Ifft for 4th grade English, and I know that's a relative clause with a dangling participle, so put the comma there and let's move on."

After I left the room, I decided to call Mrs. Ifft back in Pittsburgh. This was in the days when you could get a directory assistance operator who would answer, "Can I help yinz, hun?" I called Doris Ifft, who had long since retired, and told her how grateful I was to her for teaching me English and that I had spent almost two decades working as a professional writer writing films and TV shows in Hollywood.

"Who is this?!" she exclaimed.

I apologized and reintroduced myself as a student she had taught years before, adding that she probably got calls like this all the time.

"No, you're the first!" she snapped back sharply.

And I realized then that Mrs. Ifft had not been the warmest of teachers like my cousin Sharon. But she, like Sharon, cared about what she was doing in the classroom, and that made all the difference.

I now have taught for as long as I was in Hollywood. I had never intended to teach, but after moving back to teach at the University of Pittsburgh for what was supposed to be just a year, I discovered I really liked it. I probably fall somewhere between my cousin Sharon and Mrs. Ifft—some students like me, others may think I'm too demanding. But the one thing I hope they all realize that I care about teaching.

You never really fully know what success is as a teacher. Some of my students don't even remember the names of professors in classes they're taking now. I had seen Sharon again more recently at the nursing home where she and her husband Yoash ended up having dinner each night at the same table with my 92-year-old father Don and step-mother Bonnie. Sharon was confined to a wheelchair, and it was apparent her health was fading. But she still had that same warm smile, the one that had meant so much to me in second grade.

It is only now that I realize how much that meant and continues to mean to me—how two different teachers, with two different approaches, both showed me that caring is the most essential teaching skill of all. There were others of course— my social studies teacher Dr. Ben Sauers who nurtured my sense of social justice; my college professor David Paletz who taught me about Politics and the Media and ignited my passions for movies, my gym teacher Bob Grandizio who taught me to make jokes if I wanted to get out of running endless laps. And many others I could mention.

There are no Oscars for teaching, but maybe there should be.

After our phone call, Mrs. Ifft and I ended up corresponding, and she sent me a photo of her lying on her bed with a hat and fuzzy slippers which I wish I could find. Dr Ben Sauers took us to Gannon College for a high school model UN and I would love to have photographs of that. Below is the wedding of my best friend from college Rob with our beloved, sometimes demanding and often enigmatic Professor David Paletz who has been a role model for me since I started teaching. And a photo of my former gym teacher (actually Shady Side’s athletic director,) Mr. Grandizio at the premiere of My Tale of Two Cities with Franco Harris and his son Dok where Franco and Bob had fun discussing my lack of ability to catch a football. Bob was so funny I used to consult with him when I was writing episodes of Saved by the Bell.

Professor David Paletz at the wedding of my college best friend Rob, Franco and Dok Harris and Bob Grandizio, one of the funniest gym teachers on the planet

. Have a favorite memory of a favorite teacher?