Learning to teach through my teachers
I am not a professionally trained teacher, but at times I have the opportunity to teach because of my profession. This has got me thinking about those who taught me, from my early days of learning in elementary school to post-secondary institutions to any class I take now that isn’t within the traditional confines of standard education. I am a life-long student because I refuse to ever stop learning. Why would anyone want to stop?
I had an excellent start to my education, with my parents being the first to encourage me to learn and explore the world. They curated my first library and I was an avid reader from my days on the training potty (even there and even then!) and all the way through my early twenties before life got complicated and busy and tiring and my read-book count per year started to dwindle. But I’ve always loved books and exploring new things. Books, in fact, saved me through some very tumultuous times; before the era of googling for the answers to what I needed guidance on, and when I didn’t know who I could turn to. Books never abandoned me and I will never abandon them. My read count is going up again.
But back to teachers. I had some wonderful early teachers as well and went to a small elementary school that felt more like a family than a learning institution. Sometimes it was dysfunctional and imperfect, yes, but we all belonged in one way or another. I would like to think, and hope, that each child was accounted for. Aside from the school not sending my information on to the secondary school once it was time to advance to grade 8 — apparently because it was rumored my family was moving that year — I didn’t feel I was left behind in any major way. I was lucky. Secondary school was another family of sorts: larger, but still small enough to know everyone to some degree. I think we were just on the plus side of three hundred students between five grade levels. The largest company I ever worked for had more employees than that in one building. The teachers that stick out in my mind during those years were not average by any means. They had a passion for the subjects they taught, which showed in sometimes odd ways. I remember watching a mix of chemicals turn into a volatile, almost explosive, reaction on the front lawn of the school during a chemistry class, giving our fetal pigs names as we spent days dissecting them and watching a classmate faint during blood draws in biology class, and listening to German opera at top volume while we studied its meaning in Western Civilization. That was just the curriculum, however. Mr. C wore a lab coat and comb-over daily, and you knew it was an especially intense day of learning when the comb-over was flipped and flopping when the final bell rang. Mr. G would lecture while walking throughout the room on top of our tables as he drove a piece of knowledge into our brains. Mr. B took a friend and I flying, along with his flight instructor, because he knew we were interested in going to Space Camp. He also didn’t blink the day I came to school late because I was watching the shuttle Discovery launch, post disaster of the Challenger.
Other teachers are memorable as well. Mr. W with his record player and scratchy records that he would play to get typing class to hit the keys to a structured beat. Mr. M with mandatory ten-minute siestas (head down on the desk, eyes closed, lights off) at the beginning of an afternoon class. I honestly don’t remember what class that was (which sometimes feeds into my back-in-school nightmares of not remembering what class to go to, whether I actually attended a class enough to pass, or what my locker combination is — ever have those?). Then there was Mrs. R: well-read, weathered, and intense in so many ways, with mannerisms that either scared you or made you take note. This particular teacher followed me from elementary school to high school English and drama classes and had a significant impact on many who were pushed by her teaching methods. I say pushed because that’s how I felt: pushed beyond my own comfort zone and I’m not sure it was in a good way. This isn’t a criticism, though. Just because it didn’t work for me doesn’t mean it didn’t work for others. She was part of my early introduction to literature and writing, and even at elementary levels it was intimidating. She definitely came from the era of standing up against “the man,” establishment, oppressors and wrongdoers of all kinds. She had a fighting soul which influenced her style of teaching. She demanded us to think for ourselves, create from our own minds, and express our deepest emotions. Looking back, I feel she wanted us to discover our uniqueness. This is a wonderful thing, in essence. If you were a kid like I was — sensitive to personal space, needing time to process, and a quiet observer and listener in order to trust — it scared the hell out of you. Any time I received a high mark or praise from this woman, however, I knew I had done something special. Suffice to say, I ended up with a fear of public speaking and writing by the time I was done with her classes, even though I was a serious writer with volumes of journals filled with my thoughts by the time I left high school. I guess I just wasn’t ready for her methods.
In college, I loved the teachers who had lived experience in their subject matter, like a psychology professor who worked in the prison system, and an anthropology prof who had tales of eating fermented shark liver in Papua New Guinea. Their experiences were hands-on and not just scholarly. In tech school, my journalism instructors had the credentials I wanted and were who I’d expect to have as peers in the field. As an adult learner in my editing courses, I knew the instructors could guide me into my new career because they were the people I’d encounter in the world of writing, editing, and publishing. The thing with all these teachers is that they were not just by the book of academia, which suited my style of learning fine. They brought real life and experiences to those they taught.
And now that I’ve been able to teach, facilitate, and present to others looking to learn, I’ve received some feedback of my own; one repeated remark being how accessible I make things. I don’t know what other teachers strive for, but this particular observation has meant a lot to me. Information should not be withheld because of titles, pedestals, or high tuitions. There is room for all of us to succeed at something and we all have a right to learn. I am by no means an expert at any one subject, nor have I gone through the hard years of teacher certification, nor has my career been steady in just one field to give me an excess of acquired years (yet), but I love to share and encourage others with my current experience and knowledge. I also want to spark conversations and connections, regardless of what stage people are at, so we can learn from each other. I know through the act of teaching I have learned things I never expected, and my life is richer for it. As time passes, I am gaining enough confidence to impart my own style and be less by the book, a lot like those who I valued teaching me.
While developing my own voice and using it out in the open has been a work in progress over my life, I feel some achievement. Without even realizing, I dropped my fear of public speaking thanks to teaching (though any type of spotlight still makes me uncomfortable to a degree). My writing strength comes from having purpose, especially when I speak up against “the man,” establishment, oppressors and wrongdoers of many sorts. I know I have a voice now, both vocal and written, and one of the first people to come to mind when I think about how far I’ve come is Mrs. R. She is unfortunately no longer with us, so having her feedback is not something I will ever get again. But I wonder what she would think of this once-quiet student who struggled to show her truest self as a youth. Maybe Mrs. R could see it, or knew there was more, because of how hard she pushed. I can only speculate, but I can certainly appreciate how she was not willing for her students, or her teaching, to be average, along with all the other teachers who stood out to me while I learned.
