BUCKING THE SYSTEM; MRS. Z' FOLLOWS THROUGH ON THREAT TO RETIRE FROM TEACHING MATH

Mom finally did it.

After 31 years, she's turning in her chalk and calling it quits as a high school math teacher.

I'm proud of her, but I'm sorry that a multitude of Charleston High School students are going to miss the classy, smart, well-dressed, trash-talkin', respect-earning "Mrs. Z" who for so long graced the entry of the math hall.

For a while there I didn't think she'd do it. She's been threatening retirement since September, but in February she started coming up with reasons not to turn in her retirement letter.

However, last week she turned in her retirement letter to the Charleston Board of Education. People have had varying degrees of surprise, dismay and simple congratulations for a job well-done.

Her coworkers said they never thought it would really happen. Her principal asked me to convince my sister -- who'll be certified to teach high school math in two months -- to take her place. Her superintendent joked that the Board of Education had voted not to accept her letter.

When I shared this last statement with Mom, her response was typical: "Well, they'd just better vote again." Whether they knew it or not, Mom's been telling those folks what to do for quite a while now.

Mom's continued employment would have been just fine with my dad, who has a good 15 more years left before he can stop working at the factory he's been at nearly as long as Mom. He's not taking the news of her retirement well, most likely because he's afraid she's going to find things for him to do around the house, thus interrupting his schedule of fishing, golfing and other favorite hobbies.

"I don't know why you want to retire. We've got bills to pay," Dad continually restates.

This from a man who traded off his wife's almost-paid-for Cadillac in January because he didn't believe fixing it was cost-effective. On a Cadillac?

I'm interested to see how my parents take to the retirement. Will they become lovey-dovey and start cutting each other's meat, or will Dad be sent away in a desperate attempt to keep Mom from killing him? All I know for sure is that I plan to have a ringside seat for the first few weeks next fall.

That's how long I expect it'll take before Mom realizes she's not in the classroom anymore. No more looking at faces to figure out what family a child is a member of. No more determining within days which students will need hands held, who'll need tightened reins and where the resident geniuses sit.

My mother has always been good at what she does. I speak from experience, having had my mom as an Algebra II and geometry teacher. She was tougher on me than she was on many of her students, and you can best believe those A's I received were hard-earned.

I rarely called my mother Mom at school. Sure, if I needed lunch money or wanted to go somewhere, I'd let out a whiny "Mama" for the world to hear, but most often, she was Mrs. Z or Mrs. Zellars, just like with her other students.

That was the cool thing about my mom. She commanded respect in and outside of the classroom by everyone, and she didn't care who you were or who you thought you were. She'd set me, a lawyer's son and a kid from the projects straight with the same amount of attitude, and she expected the same amount of class participation from each of us.

Mom's touched a lot of lives over the years, most of them positively. Students often call, write or stop by her house to thank her for sharing her academic gifts, and more than one parent has informed her in front of their child that "Mrs. Zellars don't play, and she will bust your head."

In 1990, I voted my mom as the most influential teacher on my life. Mizzou sent her a nice little plaque that she still keeps out on her mantelpiece. It was a great tribute that I know could have been given by many other students.

Only now, on the eve of her retirement, do I actually realize how much influence Mrs. Zellars the teacher and Mrs. Zellars the mom actually had on my life.

Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.