Christine Robinson: My First Unimpressed Teacher

The news this week of the death of Christine Robinson, brought tears to my eyes. And yet, truth be told, I hardly knew her. So, why then, would the death of this eccentric English teacher at a prestigious East Coast prep school have left me spinning in a kind of hazy grief?

Close friends of mine may not recall her name but they'd certainly recognize her anecdote for hers is one of the most colorful in my bag.

I had the privilege of having her as my 11th grade English teacher, fall semester. I may have started that sentence differently, swapping out "pleasure" for "privilege" but the truth is, sitting through an 8AM class with Miss Robinson (as she was then called) who was decidedly not a morning person was anything but pleasurable.

Most mornings she'd skulk into the classroom, find a place at the Harkness table and immediately rest her weary head on the wood surface until she was absolutely certain that all 12 of us had taken our seats and any remaining excuse for delay had evaporated.

Then, slowly, she'd lift her head, glance around and begin with a question about the reading. I remember little of what we read that semester. But I do remember this.

Once, about midway through the semester, long after we'd all grown familiar in the way one does when a class is that small, she interrupted a discussion (of what I  cannot recall) to berate us all for what she identified as our utter lack of spontaneity.

"You're all so programmed. Not one of you has an ounce of spontaneity. And it's just so sad," she said, before returning her deadpan mug to the cool comfort of the polished oak table. 

The room fell silent. Most of us, I'm sure, were a bit hurt at her characterization. After a suitably awkward pause, I swiftly pushed my chair away from the table, stepped up on it and leapt right up onto the Harkness table.

"How dare you tell me I lack spontaneity," I shouted, quite proud of what I was certain was an unmistakably spontaneous gesture.

Christine tilted her head at a slight diagonal, only enough to allow us to make eye contact. And then she replied with a sigh.

"Ugh. But that's forced spontaneity."

And in that moment, I came face to face with the first in a long line of teachers I would find myself unable to easily impress.

For that distinction alone, I'll always remember Christine Robinson with gratitude and fondness.