Grammar Saves Lives

A long time ago, I saw a T-shirt—later a meme—that said:
“Commas save lives. Let’s eat grandma. Let’s eat, grandma.”
To this day, that still cracks me up. I’ve always been terrible at grammar. If I slow down and think, I can usually stumble my way through it. But texting, instant messages, and emails? Those have turned me into a grammatical wild animal with no rules, boundaries, or Oxford commas.

The ironic part? I grew up with fantastic English teachers. Rock solid. The best of the best. Yet I didn’t earn an A in English until my freshman year at OBU. When my professor told me my essays were some of the best she’d ever seen from a first-year student, I nearly asked her if she was sure she had the right papers. Anyone who saw my junior high or high school essays would’ve thought a red pen had exploded on the page. I’m convinced Mrs. Parham had to tag-team with a second pen just to survive grading my work.

As painful as it was to get those blood-red papers back, the “no sugar-coating” approach paid off. College was much easier because of it.

Did I magically turn in flawless papers in college? Absolutely not. But my grammar and spelling rarely got me in trouble. Now my content… that’s a different story. But while my classmates were adjusting to professors who expected accurate grammar, I’d already lived through years of English-teacher boot camp.

I had excellent teachers all through school. I wasn’t a problem student—just a lazy one who enjoyed griping about homework like it was a competitive sport. The issue was that my parents never let me gripe for long. Their expectations then are the same message I’ll pass along now:

If you’re one of those people who complain that a teacher has “high expectations”… STOP. Stop it NOW.
Your child getting a B or C does not mean the teacher is bad. It might mean the teacher knows exactly what will be expected in college, in a job, or anywhere else in the real world. Honestly, I learned more from the B’s and C’s I earned than from the A’s. And yes, I had a few A’s. I wasn’t a complete disaster.

So here’s a much-deserved shout-out to the teachers who taught me grammar (or valiantly tried to):

• Mrs. Moore (3rd–4th grade)

• Mrs. Tipton (5th grade) — I still know all my prepositions.

• Mrs. Grove (6th grade)

• Mrs. Parham (7th & 9th grade) — She apparently didn’t get enough of me in 7th grade and followed me to high school. She also taught me yearbook for a year. Pray for her.

• Mrs. Brooks (8th & 11th grade) — She too came back for more. Thanks to her, I read almost as many books in Honors English as I did in Western Civ at OBU.

• Mrs. Hill (12th grade) — I was late to her class more than I care to admit. Every time I’m late today, I still hear her threatening Saturday school.

• Mrs. Roberts — Not my English teacher, but three years of yearbook under her taught me a lot about spelling, grammar, deadlines, and stress eating.

Disclaimer:
The spelling and grammar in my blog should in no way reflect the excellent education I received. I was taught exceptionally well. But grammar is like a muscle—you have to use it consistently or it melts away like ice cream on pavement. I’ve been out of high school for 25 years and college for 21, and except for grad school, I haven’t had much practice writing since. So yes… I’ve gotten lazy.