Teaching is an odd game. It's natural for quite a few young men to sit in front of you and not want to be there. Its the norm for either you or your subject to be disliked. Obviously many kids do like your style or are fascinated by the subject matter too.
In the coming days they'll filter back and it'll be funereal. And that's ok 'coz you were once that kid. Remember? The teacher that lectured rather than listen? The one that made the banal into something brilliant? Or the one that smelled of drink and ciggies and signed your journal with a bookies pencil? Personally I remember three teachers. And though I came to be an 'educationalist' late on, it was those three that were in my heart when I did teacher training.
The first was a Christian Brother who recognised a waywardness in me and allowed me access to the school on winter evenings. My family trusted him and trusted me. I'd knock on the door of the CBS monastery after tea and he'd give me the key to the huge 6th class room. There I'd feed the hamsters and budgies that were kept as pets by the class. Or fill the moulds with plaster to make nativity figurines. Or paint the ones that were ready. And I'd wash out the jars and brushes, or clean out a cage or two. In retrospect I felt lost at that age and heading back to school for an hour once or twice a week kept me busy and away from bad stuff that was available if I so desired. But the Christian Brother gave me the key and the space to grow. I'd think nothing of knocking on the door of the monastery in the lashing rain and he'd think nothing of opening the school for me.
A couple of years later I faced a middle aged man who could not, would not, break down what was for me a tough subject into something manageable. Made fun of my inability. And then he would boast of how caring and Christian he was compared to others.
And finally came the one that left an indelible mark on me. English and History. Time and patience to listen. A sense of humour. Indulgent of teen flights of fancy. I wrote and flourished.
But its all three that stuck in my mind as I struggled through college. I wanted to SEE kids that were struggling coz I should know what one looked like. I wanted to leave the door open for anyone who needed it. I didn't ever want to be the arrogant and aloof man looking down while pretending to look up. And History and English were going to be my tools, used while listening and encouraging.
Of course the world isn't as straightforward as that. I've met students for whom the only use for literature would be as toilet paper. I've walked into classes where friendliness was a sign of weakness. I've faced circuses filled with Neanderthal monkeys that were supposed to be pupils.
And yet I've had a table thrown at me by a student who's sister had cancer and not put it in the discipline system. I've had a pupil walk out of the middle of a soccer game just to talk to me. Tried to make an 800 year old church come to life for 30 thirteen year olds. I've shared my biggest fears and terrible sense of humour with thousands of kids and lived to tell the tale.
Now, the end of August. Nobody cares. It is true that no other profession allows 2-3 months of a complete switch off. But whats little known is the effect a teacher may or may not have on a young life. For good or for bad we can leave impressions that are carried like scars or remembered with rose-tinted glasses. Ask yourself whom you admired or hated when in school. Thats it. You remember. Can you remember how they spoke or how they treated you? Of course you do. Good or bad they taught you something.
Wish me luck!
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