As I round off my senior year of college, I’ve been inclined to consider my educational experience and the impact of certain teachers and mentors I’ve had over time.

In particular, I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about my sixth grade English teacher, Miss Litchfield.

I remember walking into my first period class on day one of middle school full of excitement for the new opportunities I would face as a big, bad sixth-grader. I slouched in my seat and scowled at all my new peers; surely this would be the type of behavior to make me seem cool, right?

“Sit up, this is a classroom,” barked an authoritative voice from behind me. I swung my head around and gave the most apathetic look I could muster, only to be met by the gaze of my stoic and seemingly hostile teacher.

The wrinkles on her face were accentuated by the frown she wore; her stern demeanor reminded me of one you might find in an old photo album. From this first impression, I could tell that she and I would have some problems.

I’ve always lived with the philosophy that people shouldn’t take themselves so seriously. Life can be fun at any moment of the day, it’s just about having the right attitude to find it. From my personal life to the classroom, I strive to make people laugh or smile simply because I think it makes the world a more beautiful place.

Unfortunately, this has not helped me make friends with some of my more serious teachers and professors, and I assumed Miss Litchfield would be no different. For that reason, I decided to challenge her: I would make a spectacle of myself every day until she “lightened up” or I was kicked out of her class (my sixth-grade self seemed to find the latter more preferable).

And so it began. On day one, I introduced myself in a clearly bogus Australian accent to entertain the class. Miss Litchfield sat quietly at her desk located in the back of the room without breaking a grin. She simply ignored my cries for attention and continued onto the next student.

I started to realize it would be more of challenge than I initially thought. On the first assignment of the year, I used the instruction of “writing about myself,” to compose a rap to be read in front of the class. I showed up on the due date in a giant over-sized T-shirt and baggy pants that hung just below my butt in order to show how “seriously” I had taken the project.

As I stepped up to the front of the class, I could see my peers peeking over their shoulders to see how Miss Litchfield might react, and to my surprise (and dismay) she ignored my attempt at attention again. She did not get angry or punish me; instead, she politely listened to my presentation and moved on.

My attempts at breaking Miss Litchfield seemed to be failing spectacularly and I was ready to admit defeat until she asked me to stay after class one day.

My hope was that she would punish me because that would mean I really got to her. I believed that maybe I was teaching her a lesson about how to live a fun life.

I sat at her desk in anticipation of her angry rant when, for the first time ever, she smiled at me.

“I know what you’re trying to do Daniel,” she told me in a calm, even voice.

“You’re not the first student who has tried to upset me and you certainly will not be the last. And to be honest, I like your energy. I just believe it’s misplaced.”

She continued to tell me about her childhood and how, she too, had been a nightmare for teachers growing up. However, as she matured, she began to realize the value in applying yourself to things that will make you better.

She challenged me to focus more on my writing than on making the class laugh, and, at that moment, told me something I will never forget. “I believe in you Daniel. I think you have the potential to be a truly great writer, but you must take it seriously.”

In that moment, it clicked for me. Instead of dedicating my personality and energy to disrupting classes, maybe I could still make a point about life through my writing. From then on, I focused in her class and used the downtime to become a stronger writer instead of distracting others.

I learned more about writing from Miss Litchfield than just about any other teacher I have had and I cannot thank her enough. Without her, I may have never focused my craft to represent the things I believe and the person I hope to be.

She taught me that I don’t have to be serious about life, but I do need to be serious about my life pursuits. Success and growth will only come with serious discipline and I may have never learned that if it weren’t for my sixth grade English teacher.

Daniel Coffey studies journalism. He can be reached at dcoffey@unr.edu.