When I was in school I assumed that teachers didn’t exist outside its walls; that the janitors rolled them out of closets every morning and pushed them down the buffed hallways. Like many others, my core understanding of the world and its rules was shaken whenever I saw one of my teachers in the outside world. Buying a coffee. Shopping. Taking their kids to the park. It didn’t make sense, and I’d look at them askance.
One of my schoolfriends aspired to be a teacher since he was 15.
I wanted to get out of school and never go back. As a young adult, listing between one job and another, people would say to me: “You should become a teacher?”
And my responses would vary from: “I’d rather contract gonorrhoea” to the more muted: “Why?”
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Their answers always made me surprised, like I’d discovered I hadn’t really known myself all this time: “Because you’re patient. And you’re good at explaining things.”
It sounds discouraging to say “I fell into teaching”, as those kind of admissions have in no small part contributed to the lack of respect for teachers in this country; to the jibes such as: “What’s the three best things about teaching? June, July and August” or, “You lot work half a day for half a year.”
I’d be lying if I said otherwise. However, that doesn’t mean I turned out bad. Many accidental teachers discover wonderful chambers in themselves and truly flourish, becoming memorable teachers that make students’ journeys through school more tolerable.
True, there are many who just went into teaching because it was convenient, or easy, or because “the mammy does it”. Those with “the pull”, especially in small-town Ireland, quickly land permanent contracts and they end up staying in the one place, forever, because of a whim. These are the teachers who stagnate.
So, which one am I?
In one way or another, I’ve been both. Ten years and four schools. I’ve seen different environments, different students, felt and thought differently.
Taught differently? Not as much as I should have. Situations and the grind of routine slowly erode the idea of a vocation and leave you with a job or a manner in which to fill the time. Reminding yourself of the special opportunity you have is difficult. A lovely student can lift you as much as a challenging one can drag you down.
That patience I was once praised for is, for the most part, still with me, save for some dark periods that I look back on with regret. But, funnily enough, I often find myself saying to a student who has no interest in being a teacher: “You know, you might surprise yourself. I think you’d be good at it. You’re patient and you’ll remember what you didn’t like about school.”
What makes me say that to students is when I sense an intrinsic goodness. I think that’s ultimately what’s the most important. Competency is great and everything, but we’re not curing cancer or saving babies: we’re trying to model decency and help young people develop into worthwhile adults.
Mine is a personal and rather narrow experience. I haven’t been beaten up for trying to confiscate a phone. The schools I’ve been in have been ‘good’
You need to be good and keep being good. Keep on keeping on. Everything else falls into place.
In school, you were probably made to give a presentation in front of the class. And you hated it. The first class you ever step into is like that. The wall of impassive adolescent eyes. The silence. The measuring. For a moment, it takes on the climate of a wildlife documentary – and then you speak.
Hopefully your voice will come out clear and unbroken. Hopefully you won’t make a gaffe or babble. But you may do – in this class or the next.
I can’t multitask. And I haven’t become much better over the years. I can just about give instructions while pulling up a blind, but never while setting up the computer or writing on the board. But the silence of the first class kills me – still does. Just this year, I was introducing myself to a group of first-years, and not wishing for the silence to reclaim the room, I kept talking while writing my name on the board. I turned back around to some light, not unkind, chuckling and a few tentatively pointed fingers.
Mr History. That’s my name now.
I won’t presume to be the spokesperson for all teachers and all schools.
Mine is a personal and rather narrow experience. I haven’t been beaten up for trying to confiscate a phone. The schools I’ve been in have been “good”.
Sure, I’ve been insulted, but one thing that is true for all teachers is that you do develop a thick skin. You stop caring what the students think of you.
That being said, caring about what the students think of you can be a problem in the early going of your career. When you start in your first school, some hard-nosed cynic will tell you: ‘Don’t smile till Christmas ... Any misbehaviour, nip it in the bud ... Take care of the small things and the big things will take care of themselves.’
Unfortunately, these are mostly true. I was in denial. I was too soft. While I knew that I shouldn’t try to be their friend, I certainly held a naive contention that I could be nice and still be respected. That can be achieved, but not in your first year. It takes time to ooze the confidence that inspires natural complicity. Until that time, you need to follow the other great teacher maxim: fake it till you make it.
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