Soap bubbling and foaming over my hands, scrubbing and scrubbing until no skin shows and all that is left is foamy whiteness: this is one of my earliest memories. I was three years old as I turned to the boy behind me in line waiting to wash his hands. “I’m a monster!” I declared as I turned to him, raising my white foamy hands over his head as I towered six inches over him on the footstool. 

            Mrs. Welbourn put her hands lightly on my shoulder, “That’s nice dear. Now wash your hands so Daniel can wash his.” She gently turned me towards the sink as the sense of power washed away with the soap suds taking the monster away and leaving Mary. 

            My professional passion began while playing in the mud, climbing on top of chairs, singing, laughing and playing at Mrs. Welbourn’s Day Care Center. Her gentleness and warmth infused with the ability to keep control of countless preschool children seemed like super-powers to me when I was young. Her gentle hand patted my back each day as I tried not to sleep, fighting by holding my eyes open and kicking my feet on my mat. “Shush, shush dear one.” She had an ability to end an argument over toys before it began as she leaned down and asked, “Well, what is happening here?” 

            In 1968, it was not simple for my working-class mother to find care for her three children. Before Mrs. Welbourn's, the first place Mama found was in someone’s home, a combination family childcare home and foster care. After the first day when Mama dropped us off, the woman who ran the home wouldn’t let her inside, turning us back to her care at the door. After about six months Mama became worried enough to take a day off work to show up in the middle of the day. My sister and brother reported pickle sandwiches and harsh voices. When Mama had asked, “What about Mary?” They said they hadn’t seen me. That day she found her two-year-old baby tied to a chair in the back room in front of a television screaming. 

            I have no recollection of these six months in my life. Years ago as I did a trust exercise in college I shook head to toe. I asked Mama what could cause me to have trust issues when I loved and trusted her so much and all I could remember of my care experiences was Mrs. Welbourn. Then she told me what had come before. From there she went looking for somewhere better. 

            I know it is not a real memory of my own, but it feels as if it is because of the number of times my mom and sister told the story of our first visit to Mrs. Welbourne’s. They said we walked around the chairs in the lobby as Mama talked with our future teacher who owned the program. Later Mama said that Mrs. Welbourne wasn’t going to enroll me because I was too young and in diapers. Mama told her about the chair, the crying…  She told her the story of what I would soon forget and she never would. 

After that I was Mrs. Welbourn’s favorite. I always knew it. She had tea parties in her office just for me and slowly helped my terrors go away. She had created spaces for exploration and play built from nature, logs to climb on, a tire swing, dirt baths, and more. Most of my memories there are flashes of laughter and joy. 

On my third birthday my Mama brought a Raggedy Ann cake to school. Mrs. Welbourn held my hand as she led me out the front door to see Mama there, grinning, holding the cake in her hands. I can see the moment as my heart fills still with love and adoration for these two women who taught me to love and to care for others through their examples. 

For as long as I can remember I could think of nothing more wonderful than being a teacher. After almost 40 years in the field, I still find the most delight in classrooms with children. These two women taught me the power of love and caring to heal trauma and to help children discover their passions. My experiences as a parent of six children, two who experienced deep trauma before I adopted them, taught me incredible patience and appreciation for what both Mama and Mrs. Welbourn did for me. 

As I began teaching I have been drawn to children whose behavior screams, “help me, please help me.” Every behavior has a reason, a message that we need to understand. When we pause and listen we can hear the fear and anxiety, the insecurity and the disconnection some children feel. When we hear that we also hear what they need. “Listen to me.” “Protect me.” “I need to move to prevent myself from exploding.” 

~ Thank you Mama and Mrs. Welbourn for teaching me all of this and so much more.

By Mary Ashley Latta

June 22, 2024