It'€™s eye-opening to come face-to-face with Humility

The term humility came to mind recently during sixth hour when I remembered Miss Price, my high school drama teacher.

Humility, from the 14th century, means lowness, insignificance, humble, meek, modest, not regarding oneself better than any other, even demure. So, I found it strange to muse over the term since the week before Christmas break is anything but humble, modest, meek, or demure. This week? Perhaps excess, opulence, generosity, even ostentatious display. But humility?

Miss Price always wore dark polyester pants with a contrasting blazer over a white oxford. She managed to walk even faster than she talked, long fingers punctuating the air with Price-like edicts and manifestos. One afternoon she told us we could never know humility. We were too young. Besides, she scoffed, not just anyone could achieve that special grace, a grace obviously too good for the likes of us. I have been on the lookout for humility ever since.

Then right before my eyes I saw Humility, dressed in a gray and black sweatshirt and worn-out jeans, sitting around table No. 3. Humility searched for a pencil. He squirmed in his seat and stole glances at the window as he tried valiantly to concentrate on the foreign task set before him. He doesn’t want much. He just wants his mom to get better. He would like to take home a good report card with no Ds or Fs. He would like a Christmas tree, but he knows no tree this year. He thinks about a winter coat instead of the hoody. He is a meek, modest, humble soul.

I can imagine his likeness following me like a Dickens’s phantom, hovering over the rows of pre-packaged Christmas goodies at the store. I can hear it whisper, “Just think,” in my ear as I reach out to touch a soft velour throw wrapped in a silk bow, “it’s on sale!”

Humility’s presence persists during seventh hour while I averaged semester grades and test scores. They bumped Needs against Wants. I grappled with my insecurities of test scores and curriculums at school, at the same time fretted over stained carpets and warped vinyl at home.

Somewhere near the end of school I considered the story of Christmas: a modest, unassuming, lowly tale of a babe in a stable. The story goes on to say that this baby in the manger brings to the world faith, hope and love.

My hooded Humility has faith if he does the work something good will occur. He hopes all will be well. He loves, for now, simply because he can. All the while each day he keeps coming to school. He must want to learn. I am left awed with such responsibility to teach and teach him well.

Today, I decided that Miss Price was wrong. Humility isn’t gained with experience. It is lost.

Emily Forstner is a teacher at Wasilla Middle School.