I’m not a neurolinguist, but as the expression goes, “some of my best friends are.” They like to remind us that the human brain is an organizer. As marvelous as the brain is, it cannot manage random, disassociated data; therefore, our brains are crafted to sort, classify, categorize, and relate. “STORIES” exist in all human cultures because human brains use this format to organize the events of our existence, and give structure and meaning to our lives. For each of us, our lives become stories linking and defining who and why we are. With no particular organizational structure, I share a collection of my stories:
THE TEACHER GENE -- FATHER’S DAUGHTER
My maternal grandfather was a
teacher until he could no longer support a wife and 12 kids on a teacher’s
salary. My Mother and Father were both
teachers as were 6 of their siblings.
Fourteen of my cousins are educators.
I am absolutely persuaded there is a “teaching gene” running through both families. Now the “teaching
gene” doesn’t require that you become a professional educator, it just means
that whatever you love or do, you will find yourself teaching it to
someone. Congenital teachers just can’t
help themselves.
In the 1940’s through the 1950’s,
the Principal was the alpha male of the school world; and I spent 12 years in a
world dominated by my Daddy. Of course,
I didn’t call him Daddy. When I walked
onto the school grounds he became, Mr. Jackson.
This linguistic trick was not particularly difficult since my Mother and
brother followed exactly the same rule.
Daddy was the sweet, gentle man, who spoiled me rotten; Mr. Jackson was
a terrifying presence, who ruled the school with an iron fist.
There were two other “rules” I learned very early: (1). Never, never, never under any circumstances repeat anything you hear at
home. And (2). Never ever expect any special
treatment. If anything it worked the
other way, I was less likely to receive leniency, so there could never be any
suggestion of favoritism.
My first hint that there were adult
interactions in which children could be ensnared came during the first months
of first grade. We didn’t have
kindergarten in those days, and I started school when I was 5. My first grade teacher was heavy on
discipline, and I soon became persuaded she didn’t like me. I was ashamed, thinking there was something
wrong with me; I hoped that if I was very good, she would like me.
One day, I had to go to the
bathroom. In 1945, Fairview Alpha School
didn’t have indoor toilets, so I had to take the long trek to the big outhouse
on the edge of the woods. It was a
pretty Fall day, and I confess I may have “dawdled”
on my walk back. “Dawdling” was the infraction for which I was punished. My punishment was to stand in the small,
dark, cramped supply closet located just behind the teacher’s desk in the front
of the room. Inside the dark closet
wasn’t too bad. I could even see a
narrow slice of the classroom through the keyhole.
I wasn’t especially concerned until
Mr. Jackson walked into the room. He
took a seat at the back, just inside the range of my keyhole view. He sat there for what seemed hours before standing
and turning to leave. As he reached to
turn the doorknob, I could feel the tension flowing from my body, “I had escaped disaster.” But I sighed too soon. Even as his hand turned the knob, and the
door started to open, my teacher spoke.
I swear, there was a tinge of evil satisfaction in her voice, “Frances Ruth, you can come out of the
closet, now.”
Daddy paused and slowly turned back
into the room. I slunk from the closet,
eyes down. He stood at the door while I
took the walk of shame back to my desk and slid in. I sat there frozen until I heard the sound of
the door closing behind him. The
remainder of the day was sheer hell. All
I could think about was what he would say (or do) when we got home.
After the last bells and the
departure of the buses, my Father and Mother always met at the car. Usually I beat them there, but that day I delayed
and tried to sneak into the car without being spotted. I must have succeeded, because I overheard
Daddy telling Mother about the incident.
To my amazement, they laughed. I
was astonished and more than a bit insulted.
The most humiliating, mortifying episode of my life, and they thought it
was funny. When they spotted me in the
backseat, they stopped laughing, but Daddy never scolded or punished me. Indeed, I could have sworn he looked at me
like he felt sorry for me.
Four years passed before I had
another teacher who didn’t like me. Now
I would never imply that these years passed without me getting into trouble;
far from it. But my, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th
grade teachers were fair. They only
punished me when I deserved to be punished.
As they say, “If you can’t do the
time; don’t do the crime.”
After all these years, I still find it hard
to believe my 6th grade teacher was as ugly or as mean as I remember
her. Her appearance was absolutely
Simian. She looked like Zira from Planet
of the Apes, except Zira always had a pleasant, benevolent expression.
When she caught me reading ahead in
our “readers,” she punished me; so
instead of reading ahead, I hid a library book behind my reader. When she caught me, she took my library
books, and wouldn’t let me read during “free
reading time.” She said my
handwriting was awful, and moved my desk to a corner of the room away from the
rest of the class. She accused me of “back talking” her in history class, and
banished me to the cloakroom (the long closet at the back of the class room
where coats were hung). The banishment
wasn’t so bad, since all the old books were stored in the cloakroom, and I
could read all I wanted. When the other
children started pitying me, I knew I was not imagining things, – this teacher
really was out to get me.
I finally decided to take my case to
Daddy. After all, he was her boss; and
surely he could intervene on my behalf.
So I complained. I placed my case
before him, ending with the plea that I was not being treated fairly. His response wasn’t what I expected. He looked at me sadly, and said, “Life isn’t Fair.” I’m not exactly sure of his next words, but
the gist of his pronouncement was, “Life
isn’t fair; deal with it.”
I was only ten, but I was wise
enough to realize my Daddy was speaking to me as an equal, not a child. He was sharing a sad truth as gently as he
could. The wisdom of his observation has
permeated my life. Consequently, I have
spent less time protesting, complaining, griping or bemoaning unfairness; and
more effort undermining, subverting, outwitting, circumventing, evading,
overthrowing, and reversing unfair practices (and people).
Once I stopped worrying about “fairness,” I realized my teacher was not
only ugly and mean; she was dumb. It had
never before dawned on me that a teacher could be dumb; they were supposed to
know everything. Right? In that discovery, she lost her power over
me. She could punish me, but she
couldn’t make me feel ashamed or inferior.
I was no longer emotionally “hurt”
by her reprimands; and that seemed to diminish her “fun” in tormenting me. The
term “Bully” wasn’t used then as it
is today, but she was a bully.
There was a postlude, or as Paul Harvey says, “the Rest of the Story.”
Neither of these teachers really disliked me; they hated my Dad. I was only a pawn, they used as a
hostage. I didn’t figure it out for many
years, and my parents would never have told me.
My first grade teacher was lazy, and Daddy was determined she would do
her preparations and plan her lessons.
She came around, and remained at the school for many years. My sixth grade teacher only taught one year
for my Daddy. She was transferred at the
end of that year and never returned.
Mr.
Jackson’s Advice – When I became a teacher, I asked my Daddy’s advice,
and this is a summary of what he told me:
1.
Discipline isn’t something you do; it’s who you
are. It’s what you think of yourself and
your relationship to your students. If
you believe in your own authority; they will believe in you.
2.
A
Sense of Humor is
absolutely essential for a teacher. You
cannot survive without being able to laugh at yourself and the absurdities of
life. When in doubt about the correct
response, consider laughing. It will get
you out of many tight spots. Take care
though, most students would rather be whipped than laughed at.
3.
Threats. Never
make a threat you are not prepared to carry out. If you make a threat you have to follow
through; so as a general rule don’t make threats. Just tell students what to do; if you put an
OR on it, they start wondering about the implied choice.
4.
Selective
hearing and vision. If you hear it or see it, you have to act. If you don’t want to act on it; don’t hear or
see it. A wise teacher cultivates
selective deafness and blindness.
5.
Leverage.
Some students don’t care about grades, or what the teacher thinks of
them. Some students don’t care what
their parents think. All students care
about what their peers think. That’s
your leverage; you just have to figure out how to use it.
I’m
my Daddy’s girl in more ways than I care to admit.
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