Mrs. Lilly, Multiplication, and
the Importance of Insisting
Recently I read in my hometown newspaper that my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Lilly had passed away. Mrs. Lilly left a loving family and hundreds of well-educated students. Her obituary includes Ms. Lilly’s statement that she will, “go home to my God and dance on the stars with my Leo,” her husband of over 40 years. By all accounts, she lived a long, fulfilling life. Her impact on Lake Wales, Florida is immeasurable.
I was an 8-year old in Mrs. Lilly’s class in 1969. I’d be lying if I said I remembered a lot about that school year. It’s been almost 50 years. But I do remember three things. I remember the third-grade play, in which we acted-out nursery rhymes. In my only foray into dramatic arts, I was cast as one of the three men in the tub. I was the baker. I had one line: “The Baker!” which I executed with panache. Thank you.
My second memory of third grade is this: it was the first time my class included African-American students. In fact, it was probably the first time that I actually talked to a person with skin darker than my own. This was the 1960’s. This was the South. The civil rights movement was a slow, plodding march.
But my most vivid memory of third grade in Mrs. Lilly’s class involved learning my multiplication facts. Of course, we didn’t have computer games or rap CD’s to help us learn. We didn’t group marbles or count by three’s. We made flash cards. We wrote the equations on notebook paper until our hands cramped. We learned that 8 x 7 is 56, all day, every day. Simple.
Or maybe not so simple. Thanks to a doting mother and a big sister who loved to play school, my first couple of years at Polk Avenue Elementary weren’t too difficult. I picked up new concepts quickly, and rarely received a bad grade. Learning the multiplication facts presented my first real academic challenge. Betrayed by confidence buoyed by past success, I assured my parents that I had it all under control.
Mrs. Lilly knew better. We had our first multiplication quiz on Monday, right before lunch, and my results were less than spectacular. I’m not sure what my score was, but I remember that paper littered with red X’s. I was taken down a notch. Or two. My name went on the board, and Mrs. Lilly announced that this group - my group - would spend after-lunch recess time in the classroom learning multiplication facts.
After lunch, I trudged into the classroom with several classmates and sat at my desk. And I did what any normal third-grader would do under those circumstances. I cried. With gusto. No math drills, no quizzes, no recitation. Just 15 minutes of tears falling onto my desk.
When I got home from school that afternoon, my mom could tell something was wrong. I told her that I didn’t know my multiplication facts. She wasn’t disappointed. She didn’t call the school or blame the teacher. She said, “Well, let’s learn them.” I reached in my pocket and handed her the folded 4” x 6” card stock with the multiplication facts printed on both sides (provided courtesy of Gulf Life Insurance.) Mom quickly quizzed me, and circled the equations that had eluded my memory. We practiced for about an hour before supper, then another hour later that evening.
The next day I took Mrs. Lilly’s quiz again. I still missed too many, and my name made the “no recess” list again. But this time I didn’t cry. I studied. And I studied again with my mom that evening. On Wednesday I scored 100% on my multiplication test and I joined my classmates at recess.
It’s easy to understand why the school play remains a vivid memory. How often do you get to put on a chef’s hat and apron, and walk in close formation across the stage while carrying a large cardboard cut-out in the shape of a bathtub? You’d remember that, I’m sure.
And the integration of our previously all-white elementary school was a pivot-point in my experience as a student. Two years later I’d be the interloper, attending the previously all-minority schools on the other side of town. Third grade was the end of “us” and “them.” Now it was just “us.” Yes, it’s hard to imagine now.
But why do I remember learning my multiplication tables? Why can I still see – almost 50 years later – that paper with all those red X’s? Why do I remember the pride I felt later that week when I knew that 8 x 8 is 64, all day, every day?
I think I know why. I think it’s because Mrs. Lilly insisted.
I don’t know if the principal or anyone at the district office kept track of Mrs. Lilly’s test scores. We took standardized tests, but they didn’t have the high-stakes impact of today’s evaluations. I don’t remember any of my teachers having formal observations based on Danielson or Marzano, but I remember the principal poking her head in the room almost every day.
No, I think Mrs. Lilly’s motivation was more intrinsic, and as a result, more precious. She wanted her students to learn. She didn’t want to send any of us to fourth grade without knowing our multiplication facts. Long division awaited, and multiplication was a pre-requisite. No one would blame Mrs. Lilly if a couple of her students never learned their multiplication facts, or couldn’t read on grade level. But she would know. No student would leave third grade unprepared – not on her watch.
Did having my name listed on the board shame me or discourage me? No. It was a wake-up call. Better to wake up and learn than sleep in ignorance. I was embarrassed, sure. But if that – and missing recess for two days – is the price for learning my multiplication facts, then I’ll take that deal. All day, every day.
I never hugged Mrs. Lilly. Kids didn’t do that back then. I don’t remember the sound of her voice. I don’t know her favorite quote, her favorite color, or her favorite song. I can’t recall a single lesson she taught. It has simply been too long ago.
But here’s one thing I do remember: she insisted. She insisted because she cared. And because she cared, she made a positive impact on my life.
Thank you, Mrs. Lilly.
the Importance of Insisting
Recently I read in my hometown newspaper that my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Lilly had passed away. Mrs. Lilly left a loving family and hundreds of well-educated students. Her obituary includes Ms. Lilly’s statement that she will, “go home to my God and dance on the stars with my Leo,” her husband of over 40 years. By all accounts, she lived a long, fulfilling life. Her impact on Lake Wales, Florida is immeasurable.
I was an 8-year old in Mrs. Lilly’s class in 1969. I’d be lying if I said I remembered a lot about that school year. It’s been almost 50 years. But I do remember three things. I remember the third-grade play, in which we acted-out nursery rhymes. In my only foray into dramatic arts, I was cast as one of the three men in the tub. I was the baker. I had one line: “The Baker!” which I executed with panache. Thank you.
My second memory of third grade is this: it was the first time my class included African-American students. In fact, it was probably the first time that I actually talked to a person with skin darker than my own. This was the 1960’s. This was the South. The civil rights movement was a slow, plodding march.
But my most vivid memory of third grade in Mrs. Lilly’s class involved learning my multiplication facts. Of course, we didn’t have computer games or rap CD’s to help us learn. We didn’t group marbles or count by three’s. We made flash cards. We wrote the equations on notebook paper until our hands cramped. We learned that 8 x 7 is 56, all day, every day. Simple.
Or maybe not so simple. Thanks to a doting mother and a big sister who loved to play school, my first couple of years at Polk Avenue Elementary weren’t too difficult. I picked up new concepts quickly, and rarely received a bad grade. Learning the multiplication facts presented my first real academic challenge. Betrayed by confidence buoyed by past success, I assured my parents that I had it all under control.
Mrs. Lilly knew better. We had our first multiplication quiz on Monday, right before lunch, and my results were less than spectacular. I’m not sure what my score was, but I remember that paper littered with red X’s. I was taken down a notch. Or two. My name went on the board, and Mrs. Lilly announced that this group - my group - would spend after-lunch recess time in the classroom learning multiplication facts.
After lunch, I trudged into the classroom with several classmates and sat at my desk. And I did what any normal third-grader would do under those circumstances. I cried. With gusto. No math drills, no quizzes, no recitation. Just 15 minutes of tears falling onto my desk.
When I got home from school that afternoon, my mom could tell something was wrong. I told her that I didn’t know my multiplication facts. She wasn’t disappointed. She didn’t call the school or blame the teacher. She said, “Well, let’s learn them.” I reached in my pocket and handed her the folded 4” x 6” card stock with the multiplication facts printed on both sides (provided courtesy of Gulf Life Insurance.) Mom quickly quizzed me, and circled the equations that had eluded my memory. We practiced for about an hour before supper, then another hour later that evening.
The next day I took Mrs. Lilly’s quiz again. I still missed too many, and my name made the “no recess” list again. But this time I didn’t cry. I studied. And I studied again with my mom that evening. On Wednesday I scored 100% on my multiplication test and I joined my classmates at recess.
It’s easy to understand why the school play remains a vivid memory. How often do you get to put on a chef’s hat and apron, and walk in close formation across the stage while carrying a large cardboard cut-out in the shape of a bathtub? You’d remember that, I’m sure.
And the integration of our previously all-white elementary school was a pivot-point in my experience as a student. Two years later I’d be the interloper, attending the previously all-minority schools on the other side of town. Third grade was the end of “us” and “them.” Now it was just “us.” Yes, it’s hard to imagine now.
But why do I remember learning my multiplication tables? Why can I still see – almost 50 years later – that paper with all those red X’s? Why do I remember the pride I felt later that week when I knew that 8 x 8 is 64, all day, every day?
I think I know why. I think it’s because Mrs. Lilly insisted.
I don’t know if the principal or anyone at the district office kept track of Mrs. Lilly’s test scores. We took standardized tests, but they didn’t have the high-stakes impact of today’s evaluations. I don’t remember any of my teachers having formal observations based on Danielson or Marzano, but I remember the principal poking her head in the room almost every day.
No, I think Mrs. Lilly’s motivation was more intrinsic, and as a result, more precious. She wanted her students to learn. She didn’t want to send any of us to fourth grade without knowing our multiplication facts. Long division awaited, and multiplication was a pre-requisite. No one would blame Mrs. Lilly if a couple of her students never learned their multiplication facts, or couldn’t read on grade level. But she would know. No student would leave third grade unprepared – not on her watch.
Did having my name listed on the board shame me or discourage me? No. It was a wake-up call. Better to wake up and learn than sleep in ignorance. I was embarrassed, sure. But if that – and missing recess for two days – is the price for learning my multiplication facts, then I’ll take that deal. All day, every day.
I never hugged Mrs. Lilly. Kids didn’t do that back then. I don’t remember the sound of her voice. I don’t know her favorite quote, her favorite color, or her favorite song. I can’t recall a single lesson she taught. It has simply been too long ago.
But here’s one thing I do remember: she insisted. She insisted because she cared. And because she cared, she made a positive impact on my life.
Thank you, Mrs. Lilly.
