The Teddy Bears of Redemption

I couldn’t help myself. On my first day of school in America, I snuck into my first grade classroom during recess at Horace Mann School in Beverly Hills and, little by little, began pulling off a giant sticker of a teddy bear from the wall. But when I noticed there was nothing beneath the sticker (and that I was pulling off a sizable amount of paint), I stopped and quickly tried to repair the damage. When the sticker wouldn’t adhere back to the wall, I panicked, pulled a wad of gum from my mouth and used it as temporary glue. Then, the bell rang and dozens of eager first graders walked back into class.  

Why had I suddenly turned into an elementary school vandal in the very country that had saved me by granting my family and I protected refugee asylum? It was simple: That morning, when I entered my adorable new classroom, I was astonished to find giant stickers of teddy bears, rather than ominous portraits of national leaders, on the walls. 

Back in post-revolutionary Iran, I was accustomed to huge, terrifying pictures of the country’s Islamist leader, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, in my classroom. You know, the same antisemitic, violence-preaching mastermind of the 1979 Iranian Revolution who, in the late eighties, infamously issued the assassination fatwa against author Salman Rushdie, complete with a $3 million reward.

Once in America, I still had a hard time believing that a classroom was a safe place, especially given that I had suffered physical abuse from teachers and administrators back in Tehran.

Once in America, I still had a hard time believing that a classroom was a safe place, especially given that I had suffered physical abuse from teachers and administrators back in Tehran. That probably explains why I didn’t trust that teddy bear wall decor in Mrs. Sadlier’s first grade classroom in Beverly Hills. 

Something was wrong. That bear must have been covering a portrait of someone sinister. Was it “President Boosh,” as my mother called him in her Persian accent? I probably should mention that it was September 1989 and we had only arrived in America three months prior. 

That first day of school, I must have been the most distrusting, cynical first-grader Mrs. Sadlier had ever met; I even rejected a charming bag of something I later learned was called “gummy bears” that she gently offered because I worried the woman was trying to poison me. 

And one day, when I accidentally lost my way in the large elementary school corridor after needing to use the restroom and re-entered her class after 20 minutes, I was prepared for Mrs. Sadlier to lower the boom. That meant that I expected her to order me to put out my hand, palm-side-up, so that she could mercilessly slam a wooden ruler against it, as I had often experienced back in Iran. But as I inched my way into the classroom, Mrs. Sadlier simply walked up to me, spoke something in English that I couldn’t possibly comprehend, and proceeded to offer me yet another small bag of gummy bears. 

What kind of a teacher was this, who rewarded tardiness with gelatinous candy? And more importantly, what kind of a country was this “Amreeca,” as my father called it?

As the days and weeks progressed, I developed a small obsession with Mrs. Sadlier based wholly on wondrous disbelief that a teacher could be kind to me. Plus, I adored her big, gray hairdo, uniquely enthusiastic voice and best of all, her inimitable perfume, which she wore every day. I never did discover the name of that perfume, but I know I’ll never forget its scent. 

Still, there were days when I cursed being in Mrs. Sadlier’s class because I just couldn’t keep up with the American-born kids and their fluent English, Guess jeans and fabulous, neon-colored Lisa Stanley-designed homework folders. One particularly awful morning, I tried my luck at Persian-to-English telepathy when I sensed that Mrs. Sadlier was going to call on me to answer a question in English that I didn’t understand; I actually attempted to send her a telepathic message that begged her to call on someone else, because I was so overwhelmed at the sight of four letters she had written on the chalkboard: “A-S-I-A.”

Naturally, given my luck, she called on me. 

I was mortified at the sight of a word with so many vowels. Ironically, it was the name of the continent I had recently escaped. 

But then something amazing happened: Mrs. Sadlier asked me to draw what I later understood to be an animal from that continent. She pointed to a picture of a large, majestic tiger in a book. Then she pointed to me, smiled and said, “You.”

That was my first moment of redemption in an American classroom. And if this leaves you cynically shaking your head, that’s truly a sad testament to the wokeism and inappropriate politicization of classrooms across this wonderful country today. 

The truth is that when I first entered this country, I felt so small and meek, because I understood reality: To be a penniless child refugee who didn’t even speak English in Beverly Hills, no less, was a nearly insurmountable challenge. In fact, it was an all-out liability. But there was Mrs. Sadlier, who knelt down beside me and saw within me a tiger, when all I saw within myself was a mouse.

I’ve been blessed with many life-changing educators in America, but in hindsight, my first grade teacher may have been the most important educator of my life.

I’ve been blessed with many life-changing educators in America, but in hindsight, my first grade teacher may have been the most important educator of my life. Let’s face it: I was so traumatized and distrusting when I began school in this country that the first teacher to whom I was assigned could have really broken me. Or, in the case of Mrs. Sadlier, truly redeemed me. 

My eternal gratitude to my own teachers over the years motivated me to jump at the chance to compile this week’s cover story, which asks community leaders to share memories of a particular teacher that shaped their lives. But my loving obsession — yes, I was slightly obsessed — with so many of my teachers in America has also inspired me to devote a series of columns to these wonderful educators. This column is a love letter to Mrs. Sadlier and my first grade classroom; future columns will be devoted to other individual teachers and grade levels. 

Thanks to Mrs. Sadlier (and a healthy, daily dose of ESL, also known as “English as Second Language” classes during schooltime), I grew more fluent in English as each day passed. And then, one December afternoon, as I sat in ESL and watched a fellow Iranian first grader enjoy the taste of his snow-white Elmer’s glue paste, I had an epiphany. When ESL ended, I snagged the bottle of paste and re-entered Mrs. Sadlier’s class. 

The meek mouse that had marred my self-perception was gone. I may not quite have morphed into a tiger yet, but I understood my own potential. And I trusted and loved Mrs. Sadlier enough to rectify my original sin. 

When Mrs. Sadlier dismissed the students for the day and left the class herself, I stealthily re-entered the classroom before the custodian locked it and walked straight up to the giant teddy bear sticker I had tried to peel back months earlier. I pulled off my wad of gum, opened the bottle of Elmer’s paste and applied it to the back of the sticker with my fingers. I then adhered that smiling teddy bear back to the wall, comforted by the realization that no one was out to get me.

The next morning, I greeted Mrs. Sadlier in English and, after reading all of the vowels on the chalkboard correctly, happily accepted a bag of colorful gummy bears.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning weekly columnist and an LA-based writer, speaker and civic action activist. Follow her on Twitter @TabbyRefael