| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 15, 2022 |
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My teaching aspirations and ...
Dream fulfilled
by Wendy G
Teaching Affected Me Contest Winner
From four years old, despite being quiet and shy, I wanted to be a teacher.
I had few toys, so I played school with my colouring pencils, standing them up like children.
They were all different colours and sizes; I liked telling them stories, explaining things, and encouraging them in group and team work. Happy hours passed in my world of imagination. I was a kind teacher, and my students were happy.
Then I went to "real school".
My Grade Two teacher was like a witch, dressed entirely in black, with a gash of bright red lipstick. Our writing needed to be perfect, with no ink blots on the page – or we suffered from the sharp edge of her ruler across our knuckles.
The classroom was silent. I was sent outside because my glue pot fell, knocked over by the boy sitting beside me. She didn't ask who did it, only who owned it. I was punished.
She smacked a little boy who whispered to his neighbour. He had to stand on a stool facing the back wall. He poked his tongue out. She saw. I remember my fear as she took off her black shoes and in her black stockinged feet crept up behind him, hitting him so hard he fell off the stool. I had never treated my colouring pencils that way.
I still wanted to be a teacher, but not cruel like her.
In Grade Five I went to a different public school with a kind and wise headmaster. Each classroom had speakers, and he conducted morning devotions from his office. He prayed for us, and we joined in singing a daily hymn. There were weekly assemblies where we would commit to honour the Queen, serve our country, and salute our flag. Things were very different.
He visited each class regularly, adding Bible stories to our lessons, and talked about the fulfilment of Old Testament prophecies. Exciting and different.
Every visit he checked we knew how to write "119" in Roman numerals. In those days the King James Version of the Bible was used, with chapters numbered in Roman numerals. He wanted us to be able to find his favourite psalm.
He died from a fatal heart attack – mowing the extensive school grounds so they would look nice for our return after the summer holidays. A humble headmaster. I wanted to be a caring, capable and interesting teacher like him.
I became a teacher, still quiet and shy. My focus was on being kind and wise, never cruel.
Towards my career's end, I received perhaps my most precious compliment, when the mother of a fifteen -year-old said,
"Mrs G, I probably shouldn't tell you this – Aidan wouldn't want me to. Please don't be insulted. He said you are like everyone's favourite grandmother. You are the Grandma all the kids wish they could have!"
My colouring pencil dream was fulfilled. I was a kind teacher, and my students were happy.
From four years old, despite being quiet and shy, I wanted to be a teacher.
I had few toys, so I played school with my colouring pencils, standing them up like children.
They were all different colours and sizes; I liked telling them stories, explaining things, and encouraging them in group and team work. Happy hours passed in my world of imagination. I was a kind teacher, and my students were happy.
Then I went to "real school".
My Grade Two teacher was like a witch, dressed entirely in black, with a gash of bright red lipstick. Our writing needed to be perfect, with no ink blots on the page – or we suffered from the sharp edge of her ruler across our knuckles.
The classroom was silent. I was sent outside because my glue pot fell, knocked over by the boy sitting beside me. She didn't ask who did it, only who owned it. I was punished.
She smacked a little boy who whispered to his neighbour. He had to stand on a stool facing the back wall. He poked his tongue out. She saw. I remember my fear as she took off her black shoes and in her black stockinged feet crept up behind him, hitting him so hard he fell off the stool. I had never treated my colouring pencils that way.
I still wanted to be a teacher, but not cruel like her.
In Grade Five I went to a different public school with a kind and wise headmaster. Each classroom had speakers, and he conducted morning devotions from his office. He prayed for us, and we joined in singing a daily hymn. There were weekly assemblies where we would commit to honour the Queen, serve our country, and salute our flag. Things were very different.
He visited each class regularly, adding Bible stories to our lessons, and talked about the fulfilment of Old Testament prophecies. Exciting and different.
Every visit he checked we knew how to write "119" in Roman numerals. In those days the King James Version of the Bible was used, with chapters numbered in Roman numerals. He wanted us to be able to find his favourite psalm.
He died from a fatal heart attack – mowing the extensive school grounds so they would look nice for our return after the summer holidays. A humble headmaster. I wanted to be a caring, capable and interesting teacher like him.
I became a teacher, still quiet and shy. My focus was on being kind and wise, never cruel.
Towards my career's end, I received perhaps my most precious compliment, when the mother of a fifteen -year-old said,
"Mrs G, I probably shouldn't tell you this – Aidan wouldn't want me to. Please don't be insulted. He said you are like everyone's favourite grandmother. You are the Grandma all the kids wish they could have!"
My colouring pencil dream was fulfilled. I was a kind teacher, and my students were happy.
I had few toys, so I played school with my colouring pencils, standing them up like children.
They were all different colours and sizes; I liked telling them stories, explaining things, and encouraging them in group and team work. Happy hours passed in my world of imagination. I was a kind teacher, and my students were happy.
Then I went to "real school".
My Grade Two teacher was like a witch, dressed entirely in black, with a gash of bright red lipstick. Our writing needed to be perfect, with no ink blots on the page – or we suffered from the sharp edge of her ruler across our knuckles.
The classroom was silent. I was sent outside because my glue pot fell, knocked over by the boy sitting beside me. She didn't ask who did it, only who owned it. I was punished.
She smacked a little boy who whispered to his neighbour. He had to stand on a stool facing the back wall. He poked his tongue out. She saw. I remember my fear as she took off her black shoes and in her black stockinged feet crept up behind him, hitting him so hard he fell off the stool. I had never treated my colouring pencils that way.
I still wanted to be a teacher, but not cruel like her.
In Grade Five I went to a different public school with a kind and wise headmaster. Each classroom had speakers, and he conducted morning devotions from his office. He prayed for us, and we joined in singing a daily hymn. There were weekly assemblies where we would commit to honour the Queen, serve our country, and salute our flag. Things were very different.
He visited each class regularly, adding Bible stories to our lessons, and talked about the fulfilment of Old Testament prophecies. Exciting and different.
Every visit he checked we knew how to write "119" in Roman numerals. In those days the King James Version of the Bible was used, with chapters numbered in Roman numerals. He wanted us to be able to find his favourite psalm.
He died from a fatal heart attack – mowing the extensive school grounds so they would look nice for our return after the summer holidays. A humble headmaster. I wanted to be a caring, capable and interesting teacher like him.
I became a teacher, still quiet and shy. My focus was on being kind and wise, never cruel.
Towards my career's end, I received perhaps my most precious compliment, when the mother of a fifteen -year-old said,
"Mrs G, I probably shouldn't tell you this – Aidan wouldn't want me to. Please don't be insulted. He said you are like everyone's favourite grandmother. You are the Grandma all the kids wish they could have!"
My colouring pencil dream was fulfilled. I was a kind teacher, and my students were happy.
Teaching Affected Me Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
#14 July 2022 |
495 words.
Australian spelling is used throughout.
Our public schools are government funded. I went to public schools throughout my childhood and teen years.
Private schools are paid for by parents, including Christian private schools. The headmaster of that public school was an anomaly, but back then headmasters were fairly autonomous. At the time I didn't realise how very different he was - I just thought all headmasters must be like that.
The last school I worked in was a "low-fee paying Christian school", to keep it accessible to most, and it was a wonderful place to work, although we worked very hard, and had significantly longer hours than public schools.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Australian spelling is used throughout.
Our public schools are government funded. I went to public schools throughout my childhood and teen years.
Private schools are paid for by parents, including Christian private schools. The headmaster of that public school was an anomaly, but back then headmasters were fairly autonomous. At the time I didn't realise how very different he was - I just thought all headmasters must be like that.
The last school I worked in was a "low-fee paying Christian school", to keep it accessible to most, and it was a wonderful place to work, although we worked very hard, and had significantly longer hours than public schools.
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