I've loved creating and telling stories since I was first able to write complete sentences. It didn’t occur to me I could choose to be an author until I was in third grade. This is my story of how my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Jill Welch, inspired and encouraged me to keep writing and to become an author.
Mrs. Welch is one of those teachers who is renowned for her kindness towards her students. She comes down to their level without talking down to them. I was lucky to have Mrs. Welch as my teacher for the 1992-1993 school year. I always look back fondly at her class—her sitting in her director’s chair, legs propped up on an empty desk, sharing stories about topics that mattered to us kids. Her stories typically covered topics relevant to our adolescent lives—from pop culture moments like the Tonya Harding attack on Nancy Kerrigan and the allegations against Michael Jackson, to deeper discussions on morals and values. I have fond memories of being very interested in her discussions about life, some of which still guide me today—like the fact that she’s one reason I never picked up smoking.
In Mrs. Welch’s class, we had a weekly list of spelling words to practice.
“I’m going to give you all a spelling test every Friday. But for now, your homework is to make up a short story with the words from your spelling list", Mrs. Welch announced.
While the class groaned, I was excited about this challenge.
Every Monday, she handed out our weekly list. I always made sure to complete the story on time. My stories were pure nonsense—funny and full of less-than-perfect grammar. But Mrs. Welch saw something in them—something no other teacher had ever mentioned to me or my parents.
“Sam, you are a talented writer. I can easily see you being an author someday,” Mrs. Welch wrote in the margins of one of my short stories. She returned the paper with a big red "A" at the top.
I wanted to be an artist when I was in third grade. But my drawing skills were not the greatest, unlike some of my classmates, who were much better artists than I was. But after that comment on my paper, I realized writing was my calling. It made more sense than becoming an artist.
Mrs. Welch continued to nurture me and my creativity in her class. She even had me submit a poem I wrote to our local newspaper, The Flint Journal’s Wide Awake Club, a section of the newspaper for elementary school students to submit writings and drawings based on a topic. The best submissions won prizes.
The newspaper published my poem—even though it didn’t win a prize, it still felt incredibly cool. My poem was about Easter. It wasn’t anything too special—just an abecedarian poem. That was the first poem I ever wrote. It was a pretty big deal to my parents and my grandma Annette when I got published in the newspaper.
“Look at my granddaughter, the writer!” my grandma Annette would proudly say to her friends, who came over,showing off the newspaper clipping she had proudly displayed in her china cabinet.
Mrs. Welch was extremely proud of me for submitting my poem to the Wide Awake Club. She had me read the poem out loud during Show and Tell Friday. I got to sit in her director’s chair, feeling important, and read my work to the class. I was so proud and felt so confident. The entire class applauded after I finished reading my poem. I turned bright red—I was shy and socially awkward back then.
I remember The Wide Awake Club would become something our school district took part in. I had only two pieces published during elementary school—once in third grade, and again in sixth grade, when I wrote about wanting to be famous and win a Nickelodeon Kid’s Choice Award.
Mrs. Welch even recommended that I attend a Young Author's conference that the school district was having with another local school district. I read a book I had written for Language Arts class.I connected with other budding young writers. They even had different writing activities for us, such as writing something in Chinese, and exploring the writing process as a professional writer. It was a fun Saturday before the end of the school year.
Eventually, third grade was over. It was time to move to fourth grade and attend a brand new school. I ran into Mrs. Welch when I was in sixth grade, when she was touring the school with incoming fourth graders in her third-grade classroom.
“Mrs. Welch! It’s me, Samantha Tate!” I shrieked with happiness.
“Hi babe! So good to see you!!” Mrs. Welch said warmly as she hugged me.
We then became friends on Facebook in my adult years. She still comments on my posts, saying things like, “Sam, you are so smart!” or complimenting my writing and telling me I’m still an amazing writer. Mrs. Welch was so excited when I published my first book. I think she even bought a copy—even though it was about tarot and she’s Catholic.
Mrs. Welch remains my greatest inspiration as a writer and my biggest childhood hero. Teachers like her deserve all the praise, all the recognition, and all the awards—for the way they nurture young minds and spark lifelong passions. I thank God every day for having had a teacher who cared about me the way Mrs. Welch did. I haven’t felt as warmly about a teacher since.
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