The Ideal Teacher

The ideal teacher guides his students but does not pull them along; he urges them to go forward and does not suppress them; he opens the way but does not take them to the place. --Confucious

I am not an ideal teacher. But I try. I'm having a book fair this week. I let my technology club students help me set it up. This is something they know they will get to do, since I do it every year and they always get to help. They love it. But their help is both a blessing and a curse. It's nice to have help with setting up, especially with moving the boxes and carrying stacks of heavy books. It's a curse because, in actuality,I could do it better, faster, and much more efficiently by myself. But I let them do it. I give them each a table to set up and display and they work happily, setting up sloppy displays which I could do much better myself. But they love it. And they are so proud of their displays. When their class comes to the library to visit the book fair, they point out what they have done to the other students. So I let them do it.

This is the same group that produces and broadcasts our morning show. If I was producing and broadcasting the show, I would present a polished product which had been created with several different pieces of software, had been edited and would include web pages, .wav files and a myriad of interesting reports. But this is not my show. The kid's show isn't exactly like that. But it is their show. They learn, by the end of the year, to present a fairly excellent show. They learn they have to be on time, or they will be replaced by someone in the other group. They learned how to be a supportive team member when one boy's mother was gravely ill. They learn that you can make a mistake and it's OK, and you can go on, just like real newscasters. They learn that it's always a good idea to have a backup plan. When the Internet is down and you can't get the weather, you can always use the newspaper. And they learn they can do it all without me. That I will stand back and watch and guide and help, but I will not do it for them. And they will learn that this is what real life is like. And maybe I have helped, just a little, to prepare them for that.

I'm not an ideal teacher. But, every day, I try. Every day.

Fair Game

Someone left a couple of big packages of chips in the teacher's lounge.

Unless you are a teacher, I don't think you can fully appreciate our obsession with food in the lounge. When someone brings food for us...well, can you picture a bunch of hyenas tearing into a zebra? Snarling and snapping, gorging and slavering, slinking back to the cave, tummies tight. Yeah, that's us.

Maybe it's because our stress level is high. Maybe it's because we feel so much pressure to make our students successful. Maybe it's because we work such long hours with few breaks for food or even the bathroom. Or maybe it's because we are just a bunch of hogs.

People bring us food for teacher appreciation week, several groups of teachers often bring snacks, and groups will put leftovers in the lounge when they have an event. So, food in the lounge is considered fair game. We are not sure who left the chips in there. They haven't been opened because we just weren't sure. We discussed it yesterday. But we left them alone for one more day.

We figured 24 hours is the absolute longest length of time food should be left alone in there. After then, it's fair game for the hyenas. We think that's perfectly fair.

Don't you?

The Wreck of the Hesperus

I just read a blog post from Joy Unexpected about her bad experience with a teacher. It really made me ponder and brought up two bad memories. There could possibly be many more, but who knows? Since I can't remember crap, these are the ones that have stayed lodged in my brain, taking up precious room I could better use for remembering where I left my glasses.

When I was in 6th grade, my teacher, Ms. Olbis (yeah, I'm using her real name - find it on the Internet and just TRY to explain your point of view, you old hag) had a parent conference with my mother. Rationally and calmly, she told her that I would NEVER go to college. She could always tell the students who were not going to go to college. My mother was horrified and has told this story a hundred times. Hey, you old bag of pus, guess what? I went to college, I have my Master's degree, I'm a librarian/teacher who was voted Teacher of the Year and I have my NATIONAL BOARD CERTIFICATION!! I would like to find her, tell her this, and then kick her in the ass.

But the worst teacher story happened when I was a freshman in high school. It's so bad, I have totally blocked out the teacher's name. In elementary school, we had to memorize and recite poetry. Anyone else have to do this? How come they don't make kids do this now? Oh, yeah, they don't have time because they are too busy playing video games. Anyone for flashlight tag? Anyone nowadays know how to play that? And remember how we had to come home when the streetlights came one?

Yeah, well, I could still recite "The Wreck of the Hesperus" for you to this very day. I am totally serious. I recited it in college for a talent show. Didn't win, though. Anyhoo. When I got to high school and found out we had to memorize and recite a poem, I was in high cotton. I was a skinny little wall flower, but I could memorize and recite!! I memorized the poem "Daffodils" and was good to go. It is a symptom of my trauma that I have no idea how this poem goes to this very day. I stood up and began to recite my poem, so full of pride and happiness.

The teacher said sharply "Stop rocking!" I didn't even realize I was rocking. Apparently, to aid the memory process, I was swaying back and forth as I recited. I began again. Even louder, she shrieked "Stop rocking!". I stopped, flustered, nervous and upset. I swallowed and began again. She stepped closer to me and again screamed "Stop rocking!" And then she added, "Or just SIT DOWN!". Tears filled my eyes as I stumbled to my desk. I buried my head in my arms on my desk and didn't look up until the class was over. She had to know I was crying under there. She had to know I was traumatized and upset. She had to know how happy and proud I had been.

I think she did it on purpose. I think she was mean and evil and cruel. What difference did it make that I was rocking? None. It was horrible. Hateful. Traumatic and upsetting for a shy young girl. This happened more than 40 years ago. The memory of my shamed humiliation is as clear as if it happened yesterday.

I wish I could remember her name. I'd like to kick her ass too.