“Children learn more from who you are than from what you teach” – Anon
When I wrote about leaving the classroom recently, I kept thinking about all the things I still love about teaching. Talking with high school students, unpacking the intricacies of Shakespeare, and reading a hard-earned and much-improved essay are highlights that come to mind. But how did I get into teaching in the first place?
I sort of fell into the profession. My first year of university I was still very young and enamored with the idea of becoming a pilot. The plan was to major in Aviation and Music. Quite a hilarious combo, in hindsight, but I had only been alive 17 years and had never attended a conventional school. (More on my unique education in future) Instead, I met an equally youthful aviation student in my American Short Stories class and while my best idea of a date was indeed “going up in the air so blue, up in the air and down”, I eventually realized that aviation was not my forte. My head ached from the headset, I was fairly terrible at Math, I found complex flight manuals and instructions stressful and tedious. My dreams of flying an F18 died of natural causes, but I did get to sit in one and talk to fighter pilots who visited the flight school, so really had the best of both worlds. I was even gifted my own aviation jacket, which probably wasn’t quite legal and most definitely frowned upon by my peers, but I sure had fun wearing it.
I enjoyed any and all literature classes, especially Children’s Lit. Imagine waxing academic on the finer points of Toad and Ratty from The Wind in the Willows, or putting together a comprehensive essay on the classic Winnie the Pooh series by A.A. Milne. That was pure delight. The best way forward seemed to be adding an Education major and voila, my career path was sorted.
The music minor was a lot of hard slogging in Theory classes, which I thought I would ace, having spent what felt like a large chunk of my childhood slaving over thick, spiral-bound theory homework books. I learned wonderful things about singing and harmony from Dr. Wes Janzen, and was correctly in awe of singing in the chamber choir at the Orpheum alongside the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. Learning to play several instruments and delve further into piano and voice lessons was a true privilege. I only wish I had understood then how precious that time was, how sacred that musical ground.
The thing with being a fish in a small pond is thinking you’re pretty good at something, but immediately I realized I was out of my depth with the quality and caliber of musicians around me in this much bigger pond. Still, I soldiered on, even tried out for a jazz solo and was humbled properly when they gave it to a tall girl with snazzily cut red hair who is probably still singing jazz, while I wasn’t totally sure what the genre involved at the time. At any rate, I ended up singing with a little jazz band we put together at the coffee place I worked at called Javakava. I even wore a sparkly dress. Oh, the glorious 90’s and their era of coffee bars, learning the pronunciation of cappuccino and biscotti while a Sarah McLachlan cd played in the background. There was nothing so lovely as hauling one’s homework in and hogging a table with your best friend, textbooks piled high, downing americanos and pretending to study while secretly hoping your crush would walk in and come have a chat, like you were Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail.
So I muddled through college and university, first trying on secondary teaching, and then jumping to elementary ed. My first practicum was at a tough junior high school and I was a bit wide-eyed, feeling not much older than these kids and coming to grips with what a “real” classroom looked like. I went to a small, private Christian school for most of my grade 1-12, along with a few years of homeschooling. I went to my professor and said perhaps I should transfer to the elementary teaching stream, and so I did for the next three years. I should have just trusted my gut, because my best experience has been in high school teaching and is where I largely ended up. All I knew at the time was I felt very short and very nervous on my second practicum day when an angry student sent a basketball through the window. I watched the bravery of the teacher as she settled the class, and as we picked up glass together I decided I needed a bit more experience before I could step into her shoes.
As a child I spent hours lining up various stuffed animals, dolls, and eventually siblings to “teach” them, or create tiny books out of scraps of paper taped together. Once in a while I would spice things up with an impromptu baptism service on the deck. Sunday school and grade school were quite mixed up in my mind, as many of the same adults and even locations were used for both. These were the days of flannelgraph Jesus and the Disciples, little squares of carpet to sit on, and soda crackers for snack. It was great fun to try and replicate the experience at home.
I was told about this childhood “teaching” more than I actually remember it. I do remember the shock and confusion of going to school in grade one and realizing all the adventure was merely sitting for hours at a desk, doing addition drills and repeating rhymes like “Milton the mule, he made a mistake” to learn the M sound. I’m still not a fan of sitting at desks until the mind and hindquarters grow numb, but apparently the education system is stuck in the 1950’s with Dick and Jane, where students are rewarded for staying still and playing nice. I learned to do both, and am still unlearning it four decades later.
So, that is the thumbnail version of how I became a teacher. There’s a lot of boring stuff toward the end like having to transfer for my B.Ed. because the BC College of Teachers was suing TWU for having a statement of faith, moving back to Alberta, getting married, doing two more years of courses and practicums, being hospitalized with my first pregnancy, having to drop out, having my daughter, starting again, finally graduating, and landing my first job at White Rock Christian Academy.
The interesting thing is I didn’t quite mean to be a teacher. I was a bit abnormal as a student and resisted a lot of the parts of school that most teachers thrive on. As time went on and adjustments were made, I realized there were several redeeming qualities to this teaching gig. I could hyperfocus on lesson planning and create interesting projects. There were fascinating novels to read and poets to explore. I learned the difference between what a grade 10 and grade 12 student could understand and grapple with. I recognized that each teacher is a master of their own skills and style; I didn’t have to teach like anyone else, and they were not obligated to teach like me.
In the end, I think I landed on the best choice of career for me. Teaching means always pursuing some kind of knowledge, and gives the flexibility to reinvent oneself. I’ve often described myself as “a reluctant teacher”. Reluctant to embrace all the things about schools that drive me crazy, like strict timetables, making kids ask to go to the bathroom, government exams, long staff meetings, wasted time. As a career it is an adventure. There are sections of the journey that were nightmarish and parts when I felt like a weaver of dreams.
A favourite Robert Frost poem ends thus – “One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.” Frost imagines a boy climbing and swinging down from the treetops as a metaphor for how wonder and joy are balanced by the harder realities of life.
I suppose that’s a bit how I feel about it all.
Stories for Humans 