Mickey Mouse is everywhere.
He leaps on a mural around the top of the ceiling while his face keeps time on the clock next to the door. He sits among his fellow Mickey stuffed animals on the top bookshelf. Below are pencil holders, pencil sharpeners, pencils and pens—all Mickey themed. And just when you think you’ve seen them all, counted every mug, magnet, and miniature lunch box, you find one more pair of beady eyes and round ears smiling in your direction.
It’s no surprise that the woman who sits in this office every day is a lot like Mickey—a big smile, bubbly personality, caring disposition, and a mentor to little kids. Carol Kahler started out as a first grade teacher and has been the principal of Gilbert Linkous Elementary School for 12 years.
Kahler’s hair even resembles Mickey. It’s short and dark with a dyed white splash on the top, just like his ears. She is spunky and energetic, but her voice switches from fun to serious fast.
She admits marriage is hard; she laughs and says that husbands never do anything right. Her voice is quieter when she talks about her aging father, who visited his high school girlfriend last weekend and didn’t remember it the next day. She smiles with her students, but insists that not every kid gets a trophy or an A; they must make mistakes and learn from them. When she disciplines her students, her voice grows sharp and stern, and they listen with wide eyes.
She is you, me, our mother, cousins, and grandmothers—normal and familiar. She graduated college with a concern for money and the job nearest the beach. Then she met her husband, and she worked her way across the country.
When she lived in Virginia Beach, her co-worker’s husband suggested she go out with his old fraternity brother from Virginia Tech. One blind date later, she had met the man she was going to marry. At age 33, she became Mrs. Kahler and an official navy wife.
On the wall above a sketch of the original Mickey and Minnie Mouse is a certificate of appreciation from the United States Navy.
“As of this date, no longer obligated to spend nights alone due to navy duties of her spouse,” it reads.
That was March 28, 2003, marking her husband’s retire from the Navy and their decision to move to Blacksburg, Virginia. Kahler had spent much of her life moving from place to place—VA beach, Mississippi, South Carolina, Puerto Rico— but she doesn’t complain.
Being a navy wife was fun. She got good at making friends fast, knowing soon they would pack up their belongings and move to the next town and the next school. The women she met were a community; they helped each other through similar struggles of marriage and travel—a “navy wife hotline,” she calls it.
But Kahler is more of a caregiver than a care-receiver, believing you always have to be able to take yourself.
Her mother was that way too. She worked hard, paid the bills, bought the groceries—everything. When she passed away nine years ago from a brain tumor, her father became lost.
“It was the wrong parent to die,” she said.
Kahler spends her days at the school and her nights taking care of her father as his memory slowly fades.
A little boy stands in front of Kahler holding the hand of his teacher. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. The principal’s office is the adult version of jury duty—every child’s worst nightmare. She looks him in the eyes.
“Is it true that you were shooting pretend-guns at your classmates? If you’re honest, we can trust each other,” she said.
She knows exactly what to say in tough situations. She explains to the little boy that pretend guns are no longer acceptable, and she doesn’t want to see it happen again. She looks at two parents with folded arms and furrowed eyebrows and explains to them why their little girl has to sit in the corner until she stops talking. She corrects a plump girl holding a snow cone when she responds with “yeah” instead of “yes ma’am.”
She commands respect with her voice. Children, teachers and parents shuffle in and out of her office like a cafeteria lunch line. They all listen to her.
She has never been able to have kids of her own, but says she has her teachers and that is enough. She’s been with them through divorce, marriage, life and death. They call her the Gilbert Linkous Mother.
Gilbert Linkous is a colorful school. The inside is yellow and green with lizard stuffed animals and lizard wall decorations. Kahler describes it as a “Leave It to Beaver school”—a walk in the park compared to her past jobs.
Her first job in Virginia Beach was teaching very low-income kids. Most received free and reduced lunch while their parents fought for our country.
In Charleston, little boys would stand at the end of the single-file line and wait for their teachers to turn the corner. Once they were hidden from view, they would run back in the room and steal money out of their teacher’s wallets and purses.
At the same school, she called the police because fifth graders brought marijuana to school. Pizza companies wouldn’t even deliver for fear of being robbed on their way in.
She laughs about the first discipline she gave at Gilbert Linkous—a note on a boy’s backpack that said “I’m a jerk, kick me.”
But her favorite place to work was the pink school in Puerto Rico. Living there was an adventure, traveling the island and delving into the culture. There was an aurora of respect around the military base. Students would sit at the desks quietly in the morning with their hands crossed, waiting for her to come in.
There have been many kids, teachers, parents, homes and friends, but she plans to stay in Blacksburg.
“I wouldn’t want to work anywhere else,” she said.
Every morning you can find Kahler standing at the doors of her elementary school with arms stretched out and waving, just like everyone’s favorite childhood Disney character.
Kate O'Toole 