In Loving Memory of My Favorite Teacher

NOTE: The following is a slightly edited rerun from 2024. I’m re-posting it because it tells the story of my all-time favorite teacher, Nancy Brzuska. Last week, just as I was about to walk into a classroom to lead a writing class, I received word that Ms. B had died the day before. That hit hard. The timing was curious, too—I had been, just the previous week, writing her a letter in my mind. We had stayed somewhat connected but it had been years since I last wrote to her. In the letter I did not put down on the page and now will never be able to send, I was telling her all about how I recently reconnected with a friend who had been in her class, too. That friend and I had been out of touch for over 40 years. As we have been catching up with each other, more than a few of our memories tie into our sixth grade adventures. Nancy had it tough when she took over our class in the middle of the year. She handled us—a group of pre-teen smart asses—with astonishing grace. Her lessons have stayed with me all these years. Fair sailing Ms. B. I love you so much.

I have had many, many wonderful teachers in my life. My favorite, hands down, remains my sixth grade teacher Ms. B. She arrived midyear to take over for our beloved Mrs. P, who left rather abruptly due to illness. We kids were not very nice to Ms. B. initially, and I have an impressionistic memory of myself as being most resistant of all. As a twelve-year-old I could not recognize that fear was the culprit fostering my disdain—change really is hard. I only recall a deep resentment at this interloper replacing someone I loved and trusted.

Despite our collective shitty attitude, or perhaps in response to it, Ms. B did something very remarkable, which had an impact upon me that lasts to this day. Instead of punishing us or quitting amidst all of our pre-teen angst and resistance, she asked a question: Who wants to learn how to play guitar? 

A few of us answered in the affirmative, but over time I was the only one who showed up consistently. Prior to taking over our class she had spent some time on the road, singing folk songs popular at the time. She taught me these songs, dramatic numbers like Banks of the Ohio, Four Marys, I Never Will Marry, Long Black Veil and more. She also taught me Bob Dylan and Joan Baez—how I thought of Ms. B. the entire time I recently watched the Joan Baez documentary I Am a Noise.

While the music lessons were real and I did learn a half-dozen chords or so—which I can still play—there was a greater education going down, something more subtle but equally long lasting. I do not recall Ms. B once speaking aloud of feminism or rebellion but she didn’t need to. She led by example. Her voice—whether belting lyrics or speaking truths—was loud and clear and bold and beautiful and fierce as, eventually, my own would become. 

When I was in college, I got word that her son had died by his own hand. He had been chronically ill since birth, courtesy of a congenital heart condition. Faced with yet another surgery and already living a highly constrictive life due to his grave ailments, he could not carry on. I sent her a letter then, recounting for her all the ways in which she had positively impacted my life and thanking her for not responding to my early hatred and distrust with authoritarian discipline. 

She replied that my letter had helped her carry on teaching, which she seriously thought about quitting after her boy’s death. Her faith in herself had been shaken. I was glad to be even a small part of her decision to keep going. Many years later I was delighted to learn that my young niece was in her classroom and loved Ms. B as much as I did. 

[Nancy Brzuska and Me in 2015]

When I was a senior in high school I was accepted at a very prestigious university. My father told me there was no way that was happening, that higher education was a scam and that I was duty bound to marry and start popping out kids. My high school counselor told me to give up the dream of higher education seeing as my family was poor and had neither ability nor interest in helping me pursue my dreams. He did say I might consider signing up for the local state school to get a teaching degree. 

This did not sit well with me. For though I knew there was nothing wrong with being a teacher, and that I had loved so many of my teachers, this was not the life I desired. I did spend a semester at that state school, then secretly applied to a school in another state far away. Somehow I figured out how to get financial aid. And while I did beg my father’s permission to leave—for he had duped us into thinking he had full control over our lives until we were 21—my departure very much was a running away. Thus bloomed a full and mighty rebellion for which the seeds had been planted when I was twelve and saw for the first time, in the form of Ms B., what a strong woman was, and that being a strong woman was something toward which to aspire. 

Once I procured an English degree I was frequently subjected to the joke about becoming a waitress. Which is exactly what happened. I don’t have too many regrets about my time in food service and there were many pluses. The flexible schedule and instant cash allowed room for two things very important to me in my youth: hardcore drinking and pursuing a writing career. 

Thankfully I eventually quit the former. Good fortune, hard work and strange timing over a long period led me to a decent measure of success with the latter. I was in my writing prime when the Internet was first becoming popular and lucked into a weekly writing gig that then morphed into my first book contract, a deal with Simon and Schuster that, if not lucrative, nonetheless allowed me to fulfill my childhood dream of being an author when I was still in my early thirties. 

These successes, along with an ongoing need to augment my income (writing really doesn’t pay that many of us that much) found me often enough in classrooms. I’d lead workshops and writing clubs and, for a little while, held an instructor position at a private school. 

Nowadays teaching has become a pretty steady part of my life. I do not hold traditional credentials nor do I teach in conventional settings. Once each week I have a group of women writers comes to the ranch. Once every other week I lead free workshops at the Hampton Branch library in Austin. And then there is the informal teaching I do at the museum, not only sharing with people the history of 19th century Austin, but cheerfully schooling them on excellent experiences in the city they might not find in guidebooks.

All of which is what got me, yet again, thinking about this whole teaching thing and how I rebelled against the idea of being a teacher so long ago, yet here I am. And I really, really love teaching.

This is not to say I wish I’d listened to that high school counselor and gotten certified in the ‘80s. Oh no. I would not have been a good teacher as a young woman. I had to sort out a lot of my own shit before I could start helping others to sort their own, and sorting shit is the key element in whatever I am teaching, be it writing, knitting, yoga, meditation or any other topic. Because in the end, this seems to me to be what humans are most fixated on—sorting their shit or at least paying lip service to that idea. I am so glad and grateful that I stumbled upon an organic path to share with others what I have learned—dare I call it wisdom—along the way. 

I hope y’all are doing well and I would LOVE to hear in the comments about your all-time favorite teacher. 

THE JOY & BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

This week a short documentary I’m calling DEMOCRACY

THE LAWN MOWER REPORT

I jinxed myself by exhaling after two weeks of no broken appliances. And so it came to pass that the refrigerator shit the bed, just about one year after I got it off of Craigslist. I returned to CL and found another used fridge. I was pleased with myself for how swiftly I resolved this issue—getting the new one put in AND old one taken out— a complicated process given it was larger than the doorframe.

NOTES:

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Spike Gillespie

PUBLIC READING:

I’m hosting another public reading starring members from my various workshops. It will be Wednesday Oct 15 at Hyde Park Theatre. $10. Email me if you want to reserve seats.

UPCOMING WRITING WORKSHOPS

MONDAYS—Ongoing: 10 am-noon San Marcos Public Library FREE just show up.

MONDAYS— Through Sept 29, 1:30-3:30, Hyde Park Theatre, $20 suggested donation. PLEASE REGISTER HERE. It is free to register. No meeting on Labor Day, Sept 1.

TUESDAY—Sept 9, 2025. 5:30-7:30 Hampton Branch Library in South Austin. FREE. Just show up.

ONLINE I also have a substack for writers—all levels welcome—with writing prompts, articles about writing, and no paywall. Check it out: WriteWithSpike.substack.com

Thanks so much for reading y’all. I really appreciate you.