My “Commie” Teacher 1965-66
My “Commie” Teacher 1965-66
Amelia Island, Florida, was not exactly a bastion of liberal thinking as the mid sixties were coming into a blurred focus. Our class of 100, all white, mostly middle class and conservative, entered the new teacher’s classroom in the fall of 1965. The summer salt and sand still lingered in our psyche but we were freshly scrubbed and coiffed. Madras shirts, khaki skirts, and a penny in the diamond-shaped slit of our Weejun loafers. Come to think of it, the boys wore pretty much the same getup except they got to wear pants which were never allowed for girls. Some boys sported Gant shirts with the little “fruit loop” at the top of the center back pleat. No long hair covered that little fashion statement. That would come the next year.
There she was. Looking nothing like the other teachers in our school. She was young. She had long silky straight brown hair and virtually no makeup. She pulled that hair back into a loose bun no doubt to try to fit in with the other women on the faculty. But no librarian-type was she. Her loose, lanky and totally relaxed body sat slightly stooped upon a stool at the front of the classroom. Her name was scrawled in a big, sloppy script in white chalk on a pristine black board.
M r s. P h a n s t i e l
Even the look of the name and the confusion of how to pronounce it took me aback. Mrs. Bishop had been my previous English teacher. I was used to Smiths, Johnsons and Cooks for teachers. I do recall a very interesting science teacher from Jr. High named Mr. Piechocinski. Now that’s a name whose spelling sticks with you!
“Come on in and find a seat wherever you want. Okay, let’s get started.” A sly smile crossed her mischievous face while those marvelous eyes darted around the room. Here were the first students she would teach.
“I am Carolyn FAN-STEEEL.” Why don’t you introduce yourselves.” Already this was different. Wasn’t she supposed to call the roll and our only job was to say, “here” or “present” if we wanted to impress. My voice quavered as it always did when I had to speak in class.
“Did you say CANDY Caldwell? Is that your name?” I have a Karen Caldwell.”
Geez. Now I had to say even more as I felt my cheeks flushing. “Karen is my real name but I’ve been called Candy my whole life--it’s a long story.”
“Oh, goody! Tell me.”
Now my voice was trembling. “My brother was nine years old when I was born and he said I was so sweet that they should call me Candy.” Giggles all around the room to classmates who had never heard this embarrassing story.
“Well, then. Candy it is. That’s a great story. That’s what we are ALL about. Stories. Thanks for sharing.”
Her voice was different. It was nasal and had a hard edge. Nothing like the southern drawl the rest of us had. We found out later that she was in fact, “a yankee.”
After leisurely introductions, this strange new teacher reached over to pick up the text we were supposed to use. “Now. These books are BRAAAAND NEEEW. Your name will be the first one on the line. You know what that means? If there is ANY damage at all, YOU will get the full blame. So take care of them!”
There was little chance of damaging this stilted tome. We rarely used it. What a relief. Instead we spent that year reading real books and writing our own stories and plays. We were given topics and had to pair off with other students to debate the pros and cons--she assigned which one. I had to take the pro position on Capital Punishment. I was glad, because that’s what I believed. As I did research I became very much against the death penalty. I still had to present the best arguments possible to sway opinion in the opposite direction. Reflecting now, this was a turning point in my life.
I learned so much from this unorthodox teacher. Thank goodness I finally had someone like her before I left for college the next year. She made me think. More importantly, she made me think for myself and question the views of my parents, other adults, the media. She invited students to her home on the weekends to talk about issues. Only a few of us went because parents on this small barrier island became suspicious of Carolyn Phanstiel. They talked among themselves saying she was a “red.” She never espoused anything subversive. She just made us think. I guess in 1965-66 that terrified the establishment. I remember my father looking at the draft of a play I was writing with a sci-fi theme and halfway through, he wadded it up and threw it in the trash. I retrieved it, smoothed it out and got a B+
As that school year came to a close, I was able to write without fear and I finally found my voice in so many ways. It was true of all of us. The shyest girl in our class led a rousing standing ovation for our beloved English teacher at commencement. The parents stayed seated and gawked at the Class of ’66. These fearful adults no doubt wanted this “commie teacher” ousted. How could that happen now? Thank you, Doris Middleton, for standing up and leading some of us sheep to do the same.
I saw Carolyn (she always wished we could call her that) at our 40th Class Reunion.
I learned that she went on to teach thousands of other students but remembered each and every one of us from ’65-’66 by name and more importantly, personality.
I told her that I became a teacher and quoted my favorite expression:
“Speak your mind--even if your voice shakes.”
She said, “ESPECIALLY if your voice shakes.”
October 1, 2014