Student-Teacher Appreciation
It’s teacher appreciation week. And in the spirit of teacher appreciation week, I’d like to lay down some appreciation where it is due.
I have been alive for 17,066 days, and I am pretty sure that I have spent more of them in school than not in school. In 17,066 days I have had a lot of teachers, and in some way each of them has had an impact on who I am as the teacher and the person (inseparable, from each other) sitting here on this stool, in this room, in the Vortex.
I usually divide teachers into two categories. There are the ones who teach me something about the teacher I do not want to be. And there are the ones who teach me something about the teacher I aspire to be.
I do not want to be the worksheet teacher, or the packet teacher, or the scantron teacher. I don’t want to be the teacher who just writes a question mark next to a whole paragraph on a paper and thinks that’s helpful feedback. I do not want to be the teacher who stands in front of the class with tomorrow’s test and “reviews” the material in the same order in which it will appear on tomorrow’s test. I do not want to be the “I will tell you what this story means and you will tell it back to me, maybe in an essay” teacher. I don’t want to be the “print some pictures and put them on a poster and call it a project” teacher. I don’t want to be the “she doesn’t really read what we write” teacher. I don’t want to be the “look at how smart I am” teacher. Or the “I haven’t read a book since college” teacher. Or the “our kids can’t do that” teacher. I do not want to be the “you’ll never be good at this” or the “you’ll never amount to anything” teacher. I don’t want to be the “what I think is more important than what you think” teacher.
I have had all of those teachers. I wish I could swear that I haven’t ever been one or two of them. In 25 years I’ve been a lot of teachers as I moved along the road to here. But as I have learned from the renowned prostitute, cook, dancer, actor, journalist, civil rights activist, writer, professor Maya Angelou, “When you know better, you do better.”
If I do do better, it is because I know better. (Not better than everyone else, just better than I used to). If I know better, it’s because I have had the great fortune to learn from great teachers as well as those others.
Mrs. Martin was my second-half-of-first-grade teacher. I moved to Bayville then, small, waifish, scared. Painfully shy, I didn’t talk much to anyone, but I cried pretty vociferously when the little boy next to me scooped paste out of the jar and ate it. I don’t really know why I cried, ( I guess mostly because that’s what I do), but I do know Mrs. Martin was really really nice to me.
Mrs. Topoleski I had for 3rd grade. I don’t remember any specific days from that year, just the fully enveloping feeling of loving to be in her presence. I ran into her at a joint BT/CR inservice day when I was a few years into my teaching career, and she remembered me! It was almost embarrassing how excited I was when she stopped me in the hallway and said, “Kathleen? I heard you were working here.” Funny thing, I was so surprised by that, but when I run into “kids” I had in class when I first started teaching (who are now 40), I can see exactly where they sat in whatever room we were in at the time.
Mrs. Grove was smart and creative and bohemian, and getting to spend 5th grade with her was one of the luckiest things to happen to me where school is concerned. Her energy permeated every corner of the room as her gravelly voice carried the joy of really learning around the room.
In middle school my homeroom teacher was Ms. DeSalle. I didn’t have her for math, just for 15 minutes a day in homeroom 208. But every afternoon that I walked into that room, a simple, warm greeting made me feel like it mattered that I was there.
Pre-Calculus and Calculus? Sorry to tap into your math anxieties, but I think they may actually been my favorite classes in high school. Somehow, Mr. Holleran made functions and derivations enjoyable, and I learned enough to ace the category when Calculus somehow made an appearance on Jeopardy! a few years ago.
College professors are notorious for being experts in their field, but less than exceptional teachers. In some cases, the professors I have had have fully lived up to that expectation. Others I count among the best teachers I have known. The first words spoken in my first literature class with Dr. Barrett Mandel were, “I like to say f___. If that bothers you, you probably should drop this class.” I stayed that day (assume what you like from that), and I took two other classes with him in my years at Rutgers. Among the things I took away from his tutelage were an understanding of the power than an individual word can have (not just f___), that what I think about things - poetry, prose, ethics, life - matters just as much as what anyone else thinks, and that if there are any barriers to my education, I put them there myself.
My dissertation advisor, Dr. Bill Rogers, was simultaneously among the most scattered, and most compassionate educators I have ever worked with. An Abraham Lincoln and Irish History scholar (separate subjects), his knowledge is broad and his heart is large and he willingly shares all of it.
(To my students, current, past, and future,)
Each of these people has played a part in my becoming. But I want you to know, and I say without question or exaggeration, that the greatest teacher I will ever have, is you. You teach me more about being a teacher than any “teacher” I have ever had.
From you I learn the power of paying attention. When I pay attention to you I see how honest you are about what gets your attention, what gets you engaged, the ways your brains work, what helps you learn, and what gets in the way of your learning. In that, you show me more about how to teach you, and every student who comes after you, than any college class could touch.
From you I learn that I have to step back from what I know and look at things like you do. As someone who hasn’t yet written a scholarly paper, or heard of synecdoche, or read The Poisonwood Bible. You remind me what it’s like to be a novice, and when I remember that, I can see how to help you move beyond being a novice, and toward being a scholar.
From you I learn patience and persistence. I am inspired watching you work through a soliloquy in Hamlet, reading pieces for the 4th time thinking “What the hell does that mean, my lord?” And then start in on a 5th, and a 6th, until you get it. And I know I have to do the same thing to keep pace with your efforts.
From you I learn courage and generosity. I see the bravery it takes to pour yourself into a piece of writing and hope for the best. I hear what you say aloud in your occasional papers, knowing that in your high school shoes I would never have been brave enough to share the things you do, or generous enough to hear it in the ways you truly hear each other. I am awed by your courage, and humbled by your generosity. Every day.
From you I learn that I am right for believing what the voice tells Kevin Costner in that beautiful corn field of dreams. “If you build it, they will come.” You always show up. You always try whatever new or crazy thing I throw your way. You plug through things that are hard. You make mistakes and learn from them. And you grow, and change, and become more fully you, and show me the way to do the same.
I often say that I can never be the teacher that you really deserve to have, because I will always have more to learn. But every day you teach me something that helps me along my path. I appreciate your teaching. I am profoundly grateful for it. And I hope in some small way I can return that favor.
I have been alive for 17,066 days, and I am pretty sure that I have spent more of them in school than not in school. In 17,066 days I have had a lot of teachers, and in some way each of them has had an impact on who I am as the teacher and the person (inseparable, from each other) sitting here on this stool, in this room, in the Vortex.
I usually divide teachers into two categories. There are the ones who teach me something about the teacher I do not want to be. And there are the ones who teach me something about the teacher I aspire to be.
I do not want to be the worksheet teacher, or the packet teacher, or the scantron teacher. I don’t want to be the teacher who just writes a question mark next to a whole paragraph on a paper and thinks that’s helpful feedback. I do not want to be the teacher who stands in front of the class with tomorrow’s test and “reviews” the material in the same order in which it will appear on tomorrow’s test. I do not want to be the “I will tell you what this story means and you will tell it back to me, maybe in an essay” teacher. I don’t want to be the “print some pictures and put them on a poster and call it a project” teacher. I don’t want to be the “she doesn’t really read what we write” teacher. I don’t want to be the “look at how smart I am” teacher. Or the “I haven’t read a book since college” teacher. Or the “our kids can’t do that” teacher. I do not want to be the “you’ll never be good at this” or the “you’ll never amount to anything” teacher. I don’t want to be the “what I think is more important than what you think” teacher.
I have had all of those teachers. I wish I could swear that I haven’t ever been one or two of them. In 25 years I’ve been a lot of teachers as I moved along the road to here. But as I have learned from the renowned prostitute, cook, dancer, actor, journalist, civil rights activist, writer, professor Maya Angelou, “When you know better, you do better.”
If I do do better, it is because I know better. (Not better than everyone else, just better than I used to). If I know better, it’s because I have had the great fortune to learn from great teachers as well as those others.
Mrs. Martin was my second-half-of-first-grade teacher. I moved to Bayville then, small, waifish, scared. Painfully shy, I didn’t talk much to anyone, but I cried pretty vociferously when the little boy next to me scooped paste out of the jar and ate it. I don’t really know why I cried, ( I guess mostly because that’s what I do), but I do know Mrs. Martin was really really nice to me.
Mrs. Topoleski I had for 3rd grade. I don’t remember any specific days from that year, just the fully enveloping feeling of loving to be in her presence. I ran into her at a joint BT/CR inservice day when I was a few years into my teaching career, and she remembered me! It was almost embarrassing how excited I was when she stopped me in the hallway and said, “Kathleen? I heard you were working here.” Funny thing, I was so surprised by that, but when I run into “kids” I had in class when I first started teaching (who are now 40), I can see exactly where they sat in whatever room we were in at the time.
Mrs. Grove was smart and creative and bohemian, and getting to spend 5th grade with her was one of the luckiest things to happen to me where school is concerned. Her energy permeated every corner of the room as her gravelly voice carried the joy of really learning around the room.
In middle school my homeroom teacher was Ms. DeSalle. I didn’t have her for math, just for 15 minutes a day in homeroom 208. But every afternoon that I walked into that room, a simple, warm greeting made me feel like it mattered that I was there.
Pre-Calculus and Calculus? Sorry to tap into your math anxieties, but I think they may actually been my favorite classes in high school. Somehow, Mr. Holleran made functions and derivations enjoyable, and I learned enough to ace the category when Calculus somehow made an appearance on Jeopardy! a few years ago.
College professors are notorious for being experts in their field, but less than exceptional teachers. In some cases, the professors I have had have fully lived up to that expectation. Others I count among the best teachers I have known. The first words spoken in my first literature class with Dr. Barrett Mandel were, “I like to say f___. If that bothers you, you probably should drop this class.” I stayed that day (assume what you like from that), and I took two other classes with him in my years at Rutgers. Among the things I took away from his tutelage were an understanding of the power than an individual word can have (not just f___), that what I think about things - poetry, prose, ethics, life - matters just as much as what anyone else thinks, and that if there are any barriers to my education, I put them there myself.
My dissertation advisor, Dr. Bill Rogers, was simultaneously among the most scattered, and most compassionate educators I have ever worked with. An Abraham Lincoln and Irish History scholar (separate subjects), his knowledge is broad and his heart is large and he willingly shares all of it.
(To my students, current, past, and future,)
Each of these people has played a part in my becoming. But I want you to know, and I say without question or exaggeration, that the greatest teacher I will ever have, is you. You teach me more about being a teacher than any “teacher” I have ever had.
From you I learn the power of paying attention. When I pay attention to you I see how honest you are about what gets your attention, what gets you engaged, the ways your brains work, what helps you learn, and what gets in the way of your learning. In that, you show me more about how to teach you, and every student who comes after you, than any college class could touch.
From you I learn that I have to step back from what I know and look at things like you do. As someone who hasn’t yet written a scholarly paper, or heard of synecdoche, or read The Poisonwood Bible. You remind me what it’s like to be a novice, and when I remember that, I can see how to help you move beyond being a novice, and toward being a scholar.
From you I learn patience and persistence. I am inspired watching you work through a soliloquy in Hamlet, reading pieces for the 4th time thinking “What the hell does that mean, my lord?” And then start in on a 5th, and a 6th, until you get it. And I know I have to do the same thing to keep pace with your efforts.
From you I learn courage and generosity. I see the bravery it takes to pour yourself into a piece of writing and hope for the best. I hear what you say aloud in your occasional papers, knowing that in your high school shoes I would never have been brave enough to share the things you do, or generous enough to hear it in the ways you truly hear each other. I am awed by your courage, and humbled by your generosity. Every day.
From you I learn that I am right for believing what the voice tells Kevin Costner in that beautiful corn field of dreams. “If you build it, they will come.” You always show up. You always try whatever new or crazy thing I throw your way. You plug through things that are hard. You make mistakes and learn from them. And you grow, and change, and become more fully you, and show me the way to do the same.
I often say that I can never be the teacher that you really deserve to have, because I will always have more to learn. But every day you teach me something that helps me along my path. I appreciate your teaching. I am profoundly grateful for it. And I hope in some small way I can return that favor.
Comments
Post a Comment