Woman-Mountain

My fifth grade teacher had the build of a Northern European hausfrau and the demeanor of a women’s prison guard. She was perfectly suited to her job, this woman-mountain.

"Rebecca!" she called that first day in home room. "My name is Becky," I responded. "We’ll have no nicknames in my classroom," she thundered. "But Becky is my name." "Nonsense, Rebecca is your name," she pronounced.

The next day my course of action was determined. "Rebecca!" Mrs. MacPherson called. Silence. Looking straight at me, she again called, "Rebecca!!" I gazed silently at her. "Why aren’t you answering to your name, Rebecca?" she growled. "Because my name is Becky," I meekly offered. "Hrumph!" she said as she check-marked her book. Later she called Mom to request that most dreaded of meetings: a parent-teacher conference.

The following afternoon Mom bravely approached Mrs. MacPherson’s massive wooden desk. That was a sight to see – my little five-foot, one-hundred-pounds-soaking-wet Mom taking on woman-mountain. Poor Mom was going to get flattened.

"You don’t believe my daughter when she tells you her name is Becky?"

"Of course not! Rebecca is her proper name; she should answer to it when called."

"My name is Judy, not Judith. Her father is Ray, not Raymond. And her sister is Beth, not Elizabeth. That’s what our birth certificates say. Her name is Becky."

The most amazing thing happened: Mrs. MacPherson simply stared at my mother. She must have finally been as impressed as I was, that someone would stand up to woman-mountain.

The next morning I sat timidly waiting. "Becky." I looked at Mrs. MacPherson, but her gaze was solidly fixed on her book. "Here," I said. My classmates were all amazed at the change, but only I knew that it was because Mom had become a woman-mountain.

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