By davisr (Rhonda)
Author Notes |
A special thanks for the artwork, Learning by VMarguarite on FanArtReview.
There are a lot of teachers on this site who have stories to tell. There are even more students who have had those teachers they would like to talk about, or events that happened to them as students. This is your space. Please add in your own stories or poems about your experiences. |
By davisr (Rhonda)
I've never been a teacher, but many teachers have crossed my path during my lifetime. In fact, my best friend is a retired teacher, but it's not she who will be gracing this story and tribute.
As many of you will know, I grew up in Denmark and that's where I also received most of my education.
Back in the day, school didn't start until your 7th birthday. Not that it has changed that much; today it starts at your sixth birthday. Children are allowed to be children for as long as possible, and that is a great idea in my humble opinion.
Now, this essay has nothing to do with all that, but I only want to bring the whole concept into perspective. So I started school at seven, when I was taught to read and write in Danish as best as I could. The truth is that at the end of the first year, most of us could read without much difficulty.
The following school year was dedicated to Danish, math and some history and geography. But the big topic of the year was that we started to learn our first foreign language, which was English.
And this is where I came across my English teacher, Mrs Peitersen. She simply took us by storm. She was not only fun and extremely knowledgeable, but she was a formidable woman, well educated, and she spoke English like a native. All of which, I was to acknowledge and appreciate as the years went by.
She hardly spoke any Danish in class, only when it was absolutely necessary, and as you can imagine it didn't take long before we all spoke a half decent English. She taught us to write as well, but at this stage only taught us the most rudimentary punctuation. It was our second language, after all, and more was to be added over the next couple of years such as German and French.
Mrs Peitersen had a university and master's degree in English. She also spent 6 weeks, every summer, in the city of York in England. Everyone was asking why she didn't teach at university level as she ought to have done, but she preferred to teach us young ones, she said. Her joy and reward being our level of proficiency -- her words not mine.
I loved her as a teacher, and I've never forgotten her, which leads me into my next tribute.
Many years passed and my life took many twists and turns.
I lived in various countries over the years, from the Far East, South America, to almost ten years in England, three years in Scotland and now 21 years in Spain.
My second husband, whom I divorced six years ago, is Scottish, and we moved to Spain in 2003. In late 2014 I stumbled across FanStory and that's how it all started. I suddenly realised I wanted to write: not in my first language but in English. I've always been a voracious reader and Mrs Peitersen taught me to read English speaking writers in their original language. My bookshelves stand to witness.
So I plunged in to writing head on. Oh my, oh my, what a learning curve that was! One thing is to write an essay, but quite another is to write a fictional
story: in other words, prose.
But, then again, I came across so many here who wanted to help, and help they did. I corrected and edited and I learned. And I have all of you to thank for that.
Then one day I came across a writer who took me under her wing. She's a retired teacher and she set out to teach me proper punctuation and grammar, but also tweaking my sentences into what would be proper English. She's been a godsend and still is.
She has taught me so much. Not only does she grade my work, but her
patience is wonderful and seems never ending. I simply don't know and never will know how to thank her for all she's done for me.
This is my tribute and thank you. You know who you are.
So in conclusion. I truly believe that teaching is a dedication. Engaged and dedicated teachers take pride and joy from the achievements of their pupils, and so they should.
By davisr (Rhonda)
It was my first day as a nursery school teacher, and first rodeo, so to speak. The school was part of a Baptist church north of Buffalo, New York. It was a sweet community, and the school had a wonderful reputation and a waiting list.
My teaching partner, Beth, had taught in the school for years. She was a Buffalo transplant from Texas, friendly as all get out, and had a country twang in her voice. We bonded right away.
However, the thought of twelve preschoolers was a lot in my mind.
The first day was a zoo, with parents and other siblings coming in to meet the teachers and get acquainted. It was all delightful, until Darryl.
Though his mother prodded him to say hello; Darryl flat out refused, and made it clear he didn't want to be here. Beth and I chalked it up to nerves and insecurities, and left it at that.
Some cried as their moms and dads left; fraternal twins, Erica and Ryan, refused to let go of each other. All in all, the first day went as expected.
I was in charge of the fun stuff: opening prayer, the weather report, calendar, and leading the songs. My favorites were: The Wheels on the Bus and Ten Bears in the Bed. Except for Darryl, the children loved to sing from the very first day.
Beth and I did everything we could to make the troubled little boy feel welcome. The only thing he seemed to like was snack time, especially ice cream cups. I made sure we were heavily stocked with his favorite: vanilla fudge swirl.
Darryl's disconnect continued through Thanksgiving despite everyone's attempts to draw him in.
One late-autumn morning, I announced I was going to have a baby. The class wanted to know all the details, especially since they couldn't see the bump. I assured them I was going to be really big, really soon. The twins wanted to know if there were two babies in there. I assured them if I was pregnant with fraternal boy/girl twins, I'd name them Erica and Ryan. They held hands and smiled.
Then, it happened, and in the strangest way imaginable.
Bad weather moved in that day, so Beth and I were helping the children with their snow suits and boots for an early dismissal. I engaged Darryl while I wrestled with his "much too small" snow boots.
"What do you like best about school, Darryl?" I quizzed. "I'd really like to know."
"I hate school ... and I hate you!" he snarled. "I'm going to cut you up in little pieces, and put you in a box."
I was taken aback, but not shocked. I continued on with my task, thinking of how I should respond. When finished, I said, "If you cut me up, every little piece will say—I love you, Darryl."
From that moment, the tide changed.
Christmas was closing in; and, naturally, Miss Beth and I were showered with presents. When Darryl arrived on the last school day of the year, he marched up to me and asked if I would open his gift first. "This is for you, Miss Sally."
It was heavy, and I could tell he'd wrapped it all by himself. I guessed all sorts of silly things as I dug deep into the wrapping, causing the children to laugh. "I hope there's not an alligator in there!"
"An alligator...?" the children exclaimed, knowing I was given to drama.
"No, it's a jar of ... something rather peculiar," I said, pretending to be curious.
Darryl rushed, "It's a jar full of pennies!"
My eyes welled with tears when I realized he was standing beside me—smiling—and that he'd given me his penny collection.
"Darryl, this is very special. Thank you!" I opened my arms as he hugged me sweetly.
In January, I slipped and fell on an icy path one morning as I was coming in the back entrance of the school. Several days later, I miscarried my preborn son. Needing rest, I took some time off from teaching school to recover. When I returned to class, Darryl rushed to my side, and there he remained until moving up to kindergarten.
Darryl. I will never forget the day of his transformation, and the loving little boy he had become.
Author Notes |
Image of Darryl from Pixabay. |
By davisr (Rhonda)
Mary McDonald peeked at me over the top of her glasses. Do all teachers do that...? Do I?
“Go ahead, ask your questions, Rhonda.”
Mary settled onto the couch of the 3rd floor teacher’s lounge. It was where she and I spent most of our conference period every day. She was a well-seasoned, generously-shaped, black woman with more wisdom than stamina. Suffering from an advanced stage cancer, she needed rest as much as she needed my companionship.
I looked at the formidable list provided me by my instructors. Preparing to ask my first question, I leaned forward. I couldn’t wait to hear her answer to each we had time for.
Mary, called Micky D by many students, had already taught me a lot since I had come to student teach in her science class. Some of the pearls of wisdom she shared fell under the category of simple advice, like to always wear dresses with pockets, or to never leave the class unattended, but other things were deeper and more valuable. It was these bits of advice I hoped to draw out of her with the list.
I cleared my throat. "What is the one thing you feel is most important for me to know as a future teacher?”
Mary smiled and glanced over her glasses again. She granted me a wink before closing weary eyes.
“First,” she began, “always eat in the cafeteria. It endears the staff to you. Tell them it’s good whether it is or not, and they’ll pile food on your plate everytime.”
“Okay,” I said. It wasn’t quite the answer I expected, but I wrote it down. “Eat in the cafeteria. Got it.”
“That’s also where you pick up the best gossip.” Mary opened her brown eyes, a hint of sparkle chasing away fatigue.
“Gossip,” I repeated. I put the word in parentheses beside my previous note. “Is there anything else you want me to add?”
“Yes, never hang out in the regular teacher’s lounge, you know, the one on the first floor where a bunch of people gather at lunch. All they do is gripe. The good stuff, information you can use, you hear from teachers and students as they interact.”
“And that’s in the cafeteria.”
“Yes.”
"Okay, thank you.”
I started to ask another question, but Mary’s eyes closed and her breathing grew soft and even. I rested my notepad on my lap and leaned my head back against the overstuffed chair. With the hypnotic breathing of my mentor, my thoughts returned to the beginning of my journey.
I had started as a Research Technician at UT Health Science Center, Dallas in a biochemistry lab. I enjoyed my time there, but had really wanted to go into healthcare. After two years, I left for nursing school.
I was a year away from graduation on a full scholarship when my uncle, a teacher in Houston, talked me into applying for an innovative program designed to alleviate Houston’s teacher shortage. They planned to accept 2,000 applicants into their Alternative Certification program, and out of that number, 200 would be chosen.
I thought, what the heck, it was a long shot. I already had a husband and a child at this point and was kind of tired of going to school. But, did I really want to become a teacher? I mean, they were the enemy, right?
I heard a gentle chuckle. “I thought you were going to ask me more questions. You’re sleeping on the job.”
I sat upright and shook the cobwebs out. “I’m sorry.” I looked at my list again and hesitated.
“What’s wrong?”
“These questions are good, but they don’t help me find out what I really need to know."
"Then ask what's on your mind."
"How can I ever reach inner-city kids the way you do?”
Mary worked herself into a sitting position. “Rhonda, they’ll work for you no matter what color your skin is, or where you come from, if you respect them. Just because I’m black, it was never guaranteed they’d listen to me. I had to take each kid as an individual.
“Let them know you care about them and their worlds. That’s the main reason I told you to eat in the cafeteria. It’s not just about the food. It’s more about the stories.”
“Oh, I see!” And I did see. I put my list of questions aside. I could fill them in later.
“One more thing,” she said. “When they give you nicknames like Mickey D, it doesn’t mean they disrespect you. It means you’re accepted, and no amount of questions on a paper can earn you that.”
I smiled and waited as she rose tentatively to her feet. Once stabilized, she nodded. She was okay and ready to go on. So was I.
Author Notes |
A special thanks for the artwork, the classroom Esherite series by Renate-Bertodi on FanArtReview.
Mary McDonald passed away the next school year. I was working at a different High School in Houston at the time, but have mourned her loss even until now. My journey in teaching began longer ago than I care to remember, but suffice it to say women wore dresses and men wore suits with ties. There were no such things as casual Fridays, and the only time you ever wore jeans was at football games, which, in Texas, meant every Friday night. The Alternative Certification program was piloted in 1985 by the Houston Independent School District in Texas. For the maiden class, we were paid as full time teachers from the day we started. We spent the summer in an intense program of training, then were sent out to district schools as Interns. We were given many tasks as such. Some immediately filled empty teaching slots, some acted as full time subs, others given duties such as duty all day. For the rest of the year, we went to class for 4 hours every Monday night, then were given teacher certification tests at the end of the year. It was then, and still is, a great way to give people a chance to join the profession I was placed as a student teacher/shadow of a lovely teacher suffering from cancer. I only stayed half a year before I got a job at another school that needed a full time science teacher. They got another intern to be with Mary. I still kept in touch. |
By davisr (Rhonda)
My friend, Marjory and I met twenty-four years ago and, as it often happens, it all came down to chance. I had just moved up to Scotland from England and I was looking for a job. After a few difficult months, I finally clinched one with Hilton Hotels. They wanted people with language skills and I could provide that. So I was hired.
So far so good. I fairly quickly learned the ins and outs of my new job, and I soon settled into a routine. At lunchtime, I usually went out to a deli I had found nearby, bringing back a homemade sandwich and a salad.
It was a couple of months into my new employment that I went out for a takeaway salad with some chicken in it. As usual, I brought it back to the recreation room at my work place and I looked forward to my humble meal. I had just taken a mouthful when a tall woman suddenly appeared, asking if she could sit at my table.
I indicated that she would be welcome to do so, frantically chewing my food so I could actually speak to her. I swallowed and washed down the remnants of my food with some water from my bottle.
She was roughly my age, or so I estimated and she seemed keen to talk. And did we talk. In the half hour I had left of my break, I learned she was the deputy head of her school for disabled children.
She adored what she was doing and her love for her charges was evident. I asked what she could possibly be doing at the Hilton Hotels when she was so obviously a teacher and had absolutely nothing to do with that side of the world.
Her response was quite a surprise and a revelation to me. By law, the heads and deputy heads had to go out in the 'real business world' so they could pass it on to their pupils. Now, that was interesting.
A quick look at my watch revealed that I was quickly running out of time. We hurried on to exchange phone numbers and vowed that we would be in contact.
I thought I would give it a week before I would give her a ring but, to my pleasant surprise, she phoned me a couple of days later. We agreed to meet up for a meal, and that was the start of what was to become a firm friendship.
I was also to learn so much more about teaching and especially teaching disabled children and young adults. It was a world I knew next to nothing about and I was fascinated.
To be continued
Author Notes | Thanks a lot to cleo85 for the use of the artwork. |
By davisr (Rhonda)
Author Notes |
There were many more things that my memory is a little fuzzy with; whether it was on that tape or told to me privately from Susan in the years following when her and I became friends, so to be safe I left them out of the story.
|
By davisr (Rhonda)
So our friendship evolved and very quickly. It was as if it had a life of its own. We both talk a lot, laughter comes easily, and we can cry at the most improbable things. In other words, we get on like a house on fire. A cliche, if there ever was one, but never the less the truth, hence it's become a cliche.
Meanwhile, during those first couple of years, I learned not only about Marjory's teaching but also about her life in general. Like me, she was divorced and we both had children. She had two daughters, I had one, so we were on common ground there. But otherwise, we couldn't have been more different. I suppose that was the attraction which cemented our friendship.
We were in our late forties and we probably behaved as if we were at least ten years younger, but what great fun we had. I met her daughters, who were both living at home, and I was quickly accepted as a close friend. I also met Marjory's mother who took me in as a new family member. We always chatted away as if we'd known each other our whole life.
My daughter became part of it all as well, whenever she was visiting from Denmark which was fairly often.
Marjory introduced me to some of her friends, who were all a friendly lot and so much fun. To this day, I still meet up with them when I'm in Scotland. I suppose I'd always thought that teachers could be rather staid in their ways, but they all soon put me straight and rightfully so.
So, as I said earlier, this went on for a couple of years. Marjory and I met up on most Fridays or Saturdays. We would go out for a meal and to some pub or other afterwards. Mostly in Glasgow where there's some splendid venues with live Bluegrass bands, something we are both a fan of.
Then rolled in year 2003, and everything would change.
To be continued.
Author Notes | I moved to Scotland in year 2000 when I lost my lucrative job down in England. Rather than going back to Denmark, I chose moving to Scotland. This is about what happened next and about my teacher friend, Marjory. |
By davisr (Rhonda)
Author Notes |
A special thanks for the lovely artwork, Little angel by CorbyLinda on FanArtReview
This chapter has a bit of fiction mixed with memories, all designed to point out what I look for when seeking to see if the students understand material. I listed it as nonfiction, but there's clearly a bit of blarney mixed in. I'll invoke poetic license even if it isn't a poem. STAAR stands for: State of Texas Assessments of Academic Readiness, which is an end of course exam students must pass at certain grade levels, or in certain secondary courses. |
By davisr (Rhonda)
Author Notes |
Notes:
Thanks to Rhonda for starting this book to share our teaching memories. So many Fanstorians have teaching experience. There are lots of articles and YouTube presentations about the changing immigration policies and the amnesty granted. https://www.vox.com/2016/4/28/11515132/iirira-clinton-immigration |
By davisr (Rhonda)
Author Notes | Many years ago I read a wonderful book that inspired me to write my poem. The book was by Daniel Quinn called Ishmael. In this story Ishmael is constantly sketching his mother, In what she's doing she's standing by the window she's over by the table She's different place. I wanted to do something like that for Mrs W. verbally sketching her doing different things. I hope you enjoy my unique approach. |
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