I am not a Bad Teacher (Really)

I am not a bad teacher.

Really, I am not.

I have the letters of recommendation to prove it.

One counselor wrote me a letter, two months after I asked for it. She told me that I was too strict, that the kids were very critical of me when they visited her in her office. I promised that I would do better. That was enough to her ethically-laden conscience.

Another counselor also wrote me a nice little letter of rec. When he submitted the letter to me, he wrote, "She is a dedicated educator who care about her students."
My being a male had apparently escaped him. Two more times I asked him to redo the letter. I was amazed at his perceptive insights. How did he know that I used repetition, rehearse, and recitation to make lessons fun and unforgettable? It sounded so elementary, yet it was exemplary, especially since he had never seen me in action to begin with.

The principal of one site even offered to rewrite a letter that he had fired off for me in two day. It was a special favor, especially after telling me that I did not get hired for a position, for a class that I had been teaching for the previous six week.

Really, I do not begrudge the man or the outcome. Chances are, I really was a good teacher, and that would have made the other teachers look bad, those who put in the six to eight hours engaged in this public (in name only) enterprise called "education."

Or maybe I was a bad teacher. One kid sure whispered it to me (loud enough that I could hear it, at least), "He's not even a good teacher.

At first, that made me really mad. How dare he talk to me, or rather about me, like that?

Besides, there were some students who hoped against hope that I would get the job -- one kid, at first at least, thought that I had brought some much-needed (while it lasted) discipline.

Another young lady liked the lessons I taught. One of the classes was a lot of fun, although I cannot be sure that they really learned anything from me.

I also liked it when the students chanted my name, until they kept doing it, and kept doing it, and kept on doing it to the great detriment and disruption of the lesson. . . (It was kind of catching, though)

Surely I must be a pretty good teacher, I thought. These students thought I was. . .

Deep down, though, that's where the final analysis of anything has to be, the point of view which directs everything else in a person's life.

And deep down, I did not believe in what I was doing. Every morning -- I had to get up at 5:30am just to get to class in time for the zero period history class I was assigned to teach -- I kept telling myself, "you can do this." "You can do this." You can handle this. . ." And every day, as soon as the students trickled in ("poured in" would suggest that most of them were on time. They weren't), I was instantly upset, afraid, and frustrated, trying to get something out of being there, trying to get through the period and complete the lesson, to ensure that by the end of the period, "students will be able to. . ."

In all truth, they were probably able to do much more, and yet they were willing to do very little, if anything that I had assigned. Some students bragged aloud that they simply copied each other's work before turning it in.. .

The joke was on them, though. . .I never really read their work to begin with! (unless, of course, they had figured that, too)

Anyway, it seemed that it was possible that I could be there for a period of time. Perhaps I would get that full-time assignment with health benefits after all!

Again I have to wonder, surely I must be a pretty good teacher, I though. These students thought I was. . .

Of course, a human being can only take being cursed at, mocked, ridiculed, and rebuffed by ineffective deans and incognizant administration for so long before giving and just taking it (I believe that was the core strategy of totalitarian regimes when they want to wear down the resistance of undesirables. . . .) I knew that I had failed at the classroom management portion of teaching, which in effect is all of it, since it is a near Herculean task to get busy and able young people to sit in their seats for an hour plus and listen to a lot of stuff that has very little bearing on their lives or meaning as human beings.

Still, as a man I can only take so much abuse. Detention was an option, and worked in the rare moment when the kid actually showed up. Some students I threw out every day, some students I called their parents, some parents were supportive, some not so much. One even threatened to go the principal directly and raise hell. She never did, of course. Too bad she made no attempt to teach her daughter how to act like a civilized. . .anything.

I guess I am not a bad teacher.

The more I reflect on it though, being a good teacher was probably a bad thing. I kept the kids occupied doing things that they did not learn form. I was probably very entertaining, especially when I was so easy to frustrate. Still, what a waste of time for everybody.

Fine, then. I was a bad teacher. Which leaves one question unanswered. . .why did some students root for me? Why did some students think that I was a good teacher?

Perhaps they were hoping for some stability. In that district, it was customary for students to have at least one substitute teacher per day. Some classes never got a permanent teacher. I was the third teacher in a week, one who stayed for six weeks, perhaps six weeks too long. . .