I entered into teaching for a very
simple reason; I was an English major who loved to read and write and needed a
career that would support those loves. It didn’t have to do with wanting to
teach per se or even liking kids, because I had disregarded the idea when I
first entered college. It had to do with my own selfish desires, which I felt
would make me ideal for being passionate about my subject. I knew with passion
for writing and literature, my enthusiasm would help me engage and influence my
students. I admit, it was lofty. I had the young teacher enthusiasm and drive
that wasn’t yet clouded by the realities of actual teaching and the modern day
classroom. Yes, I had a good foundation for teaching, and the skills truly are
common sense that are enhanced with time and experience. I had done well in
school, seen a range of teaching styles, knew what it took to keep control of a
classroom, and I was eager. Why then, did it all fall apart 8 years later,
after solid self reflection and improvement? Three words: public school reform.
I never questioned my teachers or spoke back to them. I distinctly remember in
first grade, being more afraid of my teacher than my mother. I wasn’t stupid.
If my mother found out I was misbehaving or had gotten in trouble, let alone
CALLED THE HOUSE, I was dead. Literally, dead. There’d be no questioning if Ms.
Moccia was sure it was me and I couldn’t possibly have done that; no, my
teacher said it, so I did it. End of story. No full scale investigation had to
occur while the teacher was suspended without pay to find out if I really was
the one who was caught talking in the lunch line after I had been told multiple
times to stay quiet. My mother knew me, which parents today fail to do, know
their children. She knew I was a talker. She knew I was no angel. She knew,
upon giving birth, the day would come when I would somehow embarrass her, as do
most sensible people who have children. She wasn’t in denial of the fact that
her mouthy little brat who ate a soap suds meal at least once a month was
probably talking when she wasn’t supposed to be. I wasn’t known to be fresh
outside the house, but if it were suggested that I was, she’d believe it. She’d
heard my flip tongue enough to know that I was capable of anything I was
accused. Why? Because there was something called respect and she knew that
because she respected my teacher and what my teacher had to say, she wouldn’t
lie about me being fresh. She also knew I was six years old and lacked enough
respect to stay quiet. I was a work in progress, bound to make mistakes, for
which I’d be punished until I smartened up. Ask any kid in first grade at St.
Agnes. They’ll tell you the exact same thing. I have their names, they’ll back
me up.
When I got home, and I was scared to go home--I was scared NOT to go home, I
was not going to be questioned or ‘spoken’ to, I was going to be grabbed by the
arm, marched into the living room, sat on the couch, and reminded that A. I was
in school to learn, not talk, B. a child and to do what I was told when I was
told, C. being called by the teacher was a disgrace and how could I embarrass
my parents by behaving so foolishly that not only did my teacher have to take
time out of her day but my mother had been interrupted at work to find out I
couldn’t keep my mouth shut and I better ask God for forgiveness as well
because he does not like children who are disrespectful to their teachers. To
me, that last part about God, translated into, ‘Santa is watching all year
dummy. What he misses, God fills him in.”
This was not a daily or weekly or even monthly occurrence. I wasn’t that
stupid. It only took one time of getting in trouble at school to know that I
wasn’t ever going to do it again. The good thing? The above never actually
happened. Why? Because I knew it would if I stepped out of line.
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