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Monday, June 13, 2005
I Don’t Have a Favorite Teacher
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Friday’s blog post calling for “favorite teacher” stories got me thinking about my own. Funny, I don’t have an inspirational teacher who stands out from the rest, a teacher with whom I shared a special bond or who imparted some wisdom beyond the subject matter.
Yet all my teachers did what they were supposed to do: educate me.
I entered first grade in 1976 at First Presbyterian Day School in Jackson, Mississippi. At First Prez, as we called it, teachers taught. A few of them also proselytized, to my mother’s chagrin. But my teachers didn’t mold my character or steer me toward a particular college or career. My teachers didn’t inspire, but they taught me well. That was enough. My mother took care of the rest.
Today, teachers are supposed to show students how what they’re learning applies in real life. They’re supposed to find a way to make sure every child can experience success. They’re supposed to gear lessons toward each student’s learning style.
My teachers didn’t do that, at least not that I can remember. I learned to read in first grade by sounding out words. In second grade, I learned cursive and wrote an essay about patriotism in which I defined taxes as “a gift we give in a store.” In third grade, I learned my multiplication tables. In fourth grade, I tackled long division. Fifth grade … my only memory is discussing the Iranian hostage crisis.
Mrs. Higginbotham, Miss Hurt, Miss Rawlins, Miss Mangum, Mrs. Meador, Mrs. Dale. They knew what they needed to teach me, and they covered a lot of ground, seeing as we had daily Bible lessons, recess, and weekly music and art instruction. My teachers drilled in the basics. I remember flashcards and worksheets and book reports and spelling tests. We answered endless questions, always in complete sentences, at the end of the chapters in our science and social studies textbooks. We diagrammed sentences.
My teachers didn’t have to deal with a lot of discipline problems. Private schools can act swiftly to get rid of a problem child, though I doubt many kids got expelled from First Prez.
The teachers I had in elementary school gave me a solid foundation, which carried me through junior high and high school when my motivation waned. Mrs. Cooper, Mr. Towery, Mrs. White. My good fortune continued when I switched to the more affluent, football-centric Jackson Prep. Mrs. Patrick, Mrs. Ray, Mr. Forcier. In tenth grade, my mother and I moved to a Philadelphia suburb, where I attended a highly regarded public school.
In my mother’s eyes, my education nose-dived. She says I was smarter when I started at Radnor High School than when I finished. But in all fairness, my Radnor teachers did their jobs. I didn’t do mine. My teachers didn’t drag me to class when I chose to hang out in the cafeteria. They didn’t preach the importance of trying my best and working hard so I could get into a good college and get a good job. But when I showed up for class, they taught.
I still managed to learn a startling amount of chemistry from a teacher who was accused of using drugs by an underground student newspaper. I learned enough algebra and geometry to do okay on the SAT. And the praise I got from English teachers who liked the way I wrote probably played a role in my career choice. Miss Bowes, Dr. Hemminger, Mr. Talone — funny how these names come back to you — they were good teachers back then. But what if they taught in a diverse school, one where half the kids never learned their multiplication tables and parent indifference was the norm? How good would they be if they had to be a social worker and a surrogate parent as well as a teacher?
I feel like someone lucky enough to have the education I had should have a favorite teacher. I barely remember what my teachers looked like. I’ve forgotten many of their names. I guess that’s the way it is for most teachers who do their jobs year in and year out. It’s a thankless profession. I guess some things haven’t changed.
