Remembering Marsh…

July 31, 2008 | 12:30 AM

About nine and a half years ago, sometime in the middle of my senior year, I stood in front of two of the most feared teachers St. Paul’s School had to offer.  Patricia Marsh (speech, theatre) and Lou Courie (literature) were renowned for their ability to crush the spirit of even the most fearless of students.  Marsh, with her dark hair, raptor-like nails, and Lucille Ball voice, once threw one of her shoes at one of my classmates.  Courie, in his subtle and over-our-head humor, was known to offer academically challenged students McDonald’s applications.  It was before these two teachers I received the greatest blessing high school had to offer: approval.  As I stood listening to their conversation about me, in front of me, I thought of saying, “I’m right here, you know.”  Instead, all I could muster was silence as they spoke of my potential, my skill, and the future that I had before me.

Marsh, as she preferred being called, was without question the most influential teachers I’ve ever had.  I could rattle off a list of plenty who changed my life over the years- from pre-kindergarten through seminary, but much of what I’ve been able to accomplish happened because she scared the scared out of me my junior year of high school. Don’t stop me if I’ve told you this one.

It was my second speech of the year. Marsh’s reputation preceded her, and I was praying time would run out, giving me yet another day of preparation.  Our demonstration speech required props.  I chose to demonstrate the proper manner of setting a formal dinner table.  My time came one fateful Friday afternoon during seventh period.  Time was at a premium; a pep rally followed our class.  By my watch the time had come to release us from our terrifying prison of speech-giving and speech-hearing.

About a minute before the bell rang, I stood up and set my props on the table.  I was no more than twenty seconds into my speech when the bell rang.  Marsh instructed me to continue and told the class to sit down and shut it.  Outside the sirens from women’s chorus screamed their cheer for our St. Paul’s Saints.  As chaos reigned in our little world, Marsh’s classroom was in a time-rift of pure totalitarian fear.  I proceeded with my speech.  I called the fork a knife.  I hesitated five seconds before remembering that the plate is, indeed, called a plate.  The spoon had no name, as far as I could recall.

I might have gotten about a minute into my two-minute speech when Marsh stood up and stopped me.  Mixed emotions filled my mind: should I rejoice in my respite, or should I fear for my life?  My thoughts changed as she charged toward me, dark eyes staring straight ahead, talon-like fingernails on the tips of her arms aimed like a velociraptor readying to gut its prey.  Up the middle aisle she darted, and just as I could sense my life flashing before me, she turned to the left… toward the door.  To this day I have never seen a door flung open so quickly.  “You girls need to shut up and go to the pep rally!  We are having class in here!” is probably not what she really said before slamming the door shut and walking back to her seat.  Death escaped me that day.

It was by far the worst speech I gave in my entire life.  And it was the start of something great.  When you’ve faced death and survived, similar situations just don’t feel quite as intimidating.  From that day forward, I never feared public speaking again.  I would go on to spend the following summer working on a monologue from Of Mice and Men.  My senior year I performed my Lenny monologue at the state level in our forensics competition.

Without my experiences with Marsh I would not be the person writing this today.  Some of my friends from those two years of class are amazing performers today, including a stage actress in Memphis and a stand-up comic in New York.  Some of her students started a Facebook group, and over the last week I’ve been reading their stories.  I know they’d tell you Marsh was one of the most influential teachers they had too.

A little over a week ago, I learned that Marsh died.  When she left St. Paul’s, and Mobile, several years ago, I knew that my alma mater had lost one of its greatest teachers.  Today, I write to tell you that the world lost one of its greatest teachers.  Here’s to you, Marsh.  Thanks for everything.

Posted in Life, Mobile Alabama