Teaching, continued.
We’re nearing the end of my “Humility Journey” through this life. There are some categories I have not explored (and will not explore). Principal reason? None of your beeswax. They’re too embarrassing—I’d rather not think about them—I’m too ashamed—etc.
In the previous post, I outlined my teaching career, but I did not get into the humility I learned throughout my forty-five years in the classroom.
There was a lot—humility, that is.
A lot of it I went through in my Kindle book Schoolboy: A Memoir (2012). I told a lot of stories in that volume about my early career when I made, oh, a mistake a minute—and about my later career when I made, oh, a mistake about every two minutes.
That’s right: Throughout my career I said things I wish I hadn’t—did things I wish I hadn’t. I guess the best lesson I learned was the necessity of Apology.
I hardly ever apologized in my early years—much more often later on. The kids in those later years seemed to appreciate it. Apology seemed to soften the atmosphere, reduce tension. Perhaps.
In my early years I learned the value—the immense value—of learning from my colleagues. At the old Aurora Middle School (where I started in the fall of 1966) I was fortunate to have some terrific colleagues. Eileen Kutinsky (6th grade science), Jim Wright (8th grade math), Willetta Thomas (reading), and so many others.
They were all quite different from one another—and from them I learned that good teaching comes in a variety of forms, a variety of styles. I had to try not to imitate but to find my own strengths and ride on them.
I learned to avoid sarcasm. Early in my career I used it a lot—so much, in fact, that when I heard a kid say one day “Mr. Dyer can put anybody down,” I was flattered. I shouldn’t have been. It makes just about anyone feel bad (me included), and I tried to cut it out—though still slipped up from time to time.
The better prepared you are, in general, the better the class will go. I soon became obsessed with the literary works and authors I taught. In the summers Joyce and I would travel all over the country in search of authors’ homes, graves—and the sites that were key in their work. I went to Europe a few times for the same reason. Shakespeare, Anne Frank, Mary Shelley, and others—all sent me hither and yon in what, of course, is an endless quest.
Listen to your students—you get a lot of ideas. Near the end of my career I found, teaching Hamlet and other works, that the students had often thought of things that I hadn’t. I began writing in the margins of the text who that kid was and what his/her observation was. I would give them credit in subsequent class periods—and years.
Try not to hurt anyone. Use authentic praise whenever you can.
Laugh—especially at yourself. One day, late in my career, I was talking to a class about how few of them wore wristwatches. The kids were looking weirdly at one another. “What?” I asked. A girl said, “You said that same thing to us about 20 minutes ago.” I laughed and replied, “If I ever do that again, lead me out into the deep woods and leave me there.”
There’s much more ... okay, one more. When I began teaching, corporal punishment was still common. (I had been paddled in high school and thought it was “normal.”) Lots of teachers had paddles they hung over the blackboard. I paddled more than a few kids, and I’ve regretted it ever since.
After two or three years I quit doing it—among the wisest choices I ever made. All it does is create a lasting bitterness.
Finally ... relax and laugh. Have fun. Teaching is fun, and once I realized that, the years flew, and the next thing I knew, I was emptying my desk and heading for home the final time.
I am so grateful for those years—the things I learned, the people I met (I’d say about 95% of my FB friends are former students and colleagues), and, yes, the mistakes I made, the humility I experienced. Humility, I learned, has been one of my finest, most honest teachers.
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