I had heard stories about that history room at Natchez High School.
It was where the weak were devoured and the strong humbled.
It was the court of Mrs. Minor, and there was no doubt she ruled with an iron fist.
It was the first day of school that hot August morning. Armed with new notepads and a head eager to learn, I made my way toward the place I had heard older students talk about, usually in whispers.
“Where are you heading,” my friend Jeremy asked.
“I got U.S. History with Mrs. Minor,” I replied.
All Jeremy did was shake his head, refusing to make eye contact.
As I entered Mrs. Minor’s room, the walls were plastered with several posters of the rules she expected you to follow. I was shocked to find “No Heavy Breathing” on one of the lists.
I found a few familiar faces and made my way to sit by my friends. They were already discussing how Mrs. Minor was tough.
“I heard she made a kid have a nervous breakdown once,” Nikki said. “No one knows what happened to that kid after that.”
Surely, these were all rumors I thought to myself as I unpacked my book bag.
And then the door flew open.
Mrs. Minor looked no more than four-feet-tall. I was surprised at how tiny she looked. With Coke-bottle glasses, her curly hair surrounded her face, which was covered in gold eye shadow and purple lipstick.
She moved slow, almost sloth-like toward her desk, gazing at each and every one of us with a hawk-like stare.
“No talking,” she bellowed. “This is U.S. History. If you are in the wrong class just stay seated. I don’t like disruptions. Maybe you will remember where to go tomorrow.”
Grabbing a notebook with a red pen, Mrs. Minor began to call out roll. Some students were scared to respond, only releasing gasps of air to let her know they were there.
“Jamie Camp,” she shouted.
Looking around the room, I was curious who had a name almost like mine. My name was Jamie Kemp, and it was oddly close
“Jamie Camp,” she shouted, thumping her desk.
Raising my hand, I asked for permission to speak.
“Do you mean Jamie Kemp,” I asked.
“That is what I said...Jamie Camp,” she replied.
“But it’s not Camp, it’s Kemp,” I said.
“Well, it looks like we got a know-it-all this year,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “I get one every year. Your name is Jamie Camp.”
Fearful of what would happen next, I calmly agreed.
“Yes, it’s Jamie Camp,” I replied, sinking into the floor.
For the rest of the year, Mrs. Minor insisted my last name was Camp. She called me by that name everyday. And I just rolled with the punches.
But believe it or not, I learned a lot in her class. And once you got to know her, she wasn’t that bad. She even made a couple of funny jokes at unexpected moments.
Before I knew it, the last day of school rolled around. I even caught myself maybe even missing Mrs. Minor.
“I enjoyed your class, Mrs. Minor,” I said, heading for the door one final time. “Maybe I will see you around.”
I enjoyed you too, Jamie Kemp,” she said, correctly and with a smile. “If you hear someone shout Camp, you’ll know who it is before you even turn around.”
To this day, when I hear that word I half expect Mrs. Minor to be there with her purple lipstick and a heart of gold.
