Please Lord, Spare Me the Full Moon

About the Book

When I began teaching in the early seventies, I knew I was in it for the long haul. I knew this was my career, my calling, the fulfillment of a childhood dream. From as far back as my memory will take me, I had a longing to be a teacher. It never entered my mind to spend my life in any other way than in front of a classroom. This was cemented with I entered the first grade and loved my teacher so much I wanted to be just like her. I’m sure I lost no time telling this teacher what I wanted to be when I grew up. So she gave me little opportunities to practice teaching. When someone couldn’t tie his shoes, she would ask me to teach him how. If a student was struggling, she’d place me beside him to help. I was so proud! Any opportunity to teach was just taking me one inch nearer my destination. As I progressed through my school years, being assigned to help one of the slower students was an honor for me. I was fortunate that those were the years teachers were absolutely dedicated to their calling and to their students. Those were the days when teaching was one of the few professions women could enter. And to get there usually meant someone was sacrificing for them to attend school. Completing their education was a culmination of hard work and determination. Teachers were respected and highly regarded by the public. All that combined, produced good teachers who were extremely proud to stand before children and be the planters of knowledge. As a child, to be like any one of them was my burning desire. Never losing sight of my goal, I progressed through the grades. I may not have been the most academic kid on the block, but I was responsible. Teachers entrusted me with duties, jobs, and tutoring. In twelfth grade I was put in charge of a study hall! Upon graduation, I was one step closer to being a teacher. I finished college early, and finally was a teacher. From the beginning of my days in the classroom, I wrote down funny things kids would say and do, because I just didn’t want to forget them. As I moved from pre-school to kindergarten, then middle or high school, I had quite a treasure trove. After retiring, I reflected upon my time in the classroom and decided maybe my friends were right in telling me I should write a book. I knew it would be fun to share my stories and experiences. From time to time, I would get out my old brown tattered notebook and write. And as I got older and older, I decided “if I am going to ever write a book, I need to get moving.” I knew I’d rather write it myself, than to die and have someone run across my notebook and try to write my story. Thus, a book was born! I delight in telling my story. Some pages will make you cry. Others will make you laugh. I don’t begin to pretend I was the perfect teacher. This book does not allude to that. It paints a portrait of the inner workings of a classroom in today’s world. It conveys the fact that when teaching children with special needs, subject matter sometimes takes a back seat. They came to us with such baggage. When I stop and think about the troubles those children carried on their shoulders, I marvel at how they managed to rise in the mornings and get to school. As teachers, we had to look beyond the language and behavior in order to help these people. Our role as teachers extended way beyond our training. These were not the children of yesteryear. Most of them were products of drug-ridden homes and streets, absentee parents, video games, violence on television and movies, and absolute poverty. These influences rode on the bus with them and traveled right into the classroom where we were expected to teach, counsel, and police. That may not have been the teaching of my childhood dreams, but somehow I saw the need to know what my priorities had to be each and every day. Given all the things I saw, heard, and dealt with, I don’t believe I could ever have returned to a regular classroom. It woul

About the Author

Throughout my thirty-five years of teaching, including kids at risk to severely developmentally challenged, to learning disabled, and environmentally deprived, I shared stories with friends and family. Some were really funny and others were heart wrenching. But the beautiful part of all their utterings was the pure honesty with which they were told. As I told my stories, I was encouraged to write them in a book. I invite you to read my memoirs and follow my journey from a ghetto and a rural community in the south, then to the East Coast. The experiences I had were life changing and I have been blessed. Debby Hendricks Pierce