A TEACHER'S STORY
Mrs. Florencia Densing is one teacher whose dedication to her profession is admirable. There is no other thing in life she likes to do but teach. She's been a teacher to little children for almost 40 years already and is saddened by the fact that she'll be retiring soon.
We met again recently after so many years since we last met. She hugged me like a loving mother would her long lost child. I missed her, too, especially the beautiful stories I used to enjoy a lot from her.
The following is Ma'am Flor's stor y. I choose to tell it like it is her speaking. Perhaps it will recreate the warmth and thoughtfulness she exuded during our conversation that day - perhaps illustrate, as much as possible through her own words, the very caring and affectionate human being that she is:
One morning during the first few weeks of classes, when I was starting as a teacher, I read to my
The story is about a girl so poor that her family lives under a tree. But she insists her home is a palace that only she can see. The other kids make fun of her, and she is often alone by herself.
One night a terrible storm comes, knocking to the ground the tree where the girl's family lives. Their few belongings are also blown away. In the morning, left all wet and shivering in the cold, the girl is seen hug ging a bunch of pictures cut from an old calendar - photographs of a beautiful mansion.
It took me great effort not to cry when I close the book. " Every one of us has our own invisible palace," I explained to the class. " In the same manner, each one also has his own dark place, a secret that he or she is too scared to share." I moved towards the kids and sat on the edge of a desk. " It takes great trust and bravery to share a secret," I emphasized.
For a moment silence reigned in the room. Then little Adam came up to me and whispered in my ear: " Teacher, I want to tell the class something." Turning away from the rest, he discreetly showed me his hands - he was missing a finger on one.
I gently held him by the shoulders and slowly turned him around to face the class. He was trembling. " Adam has something personal to share with all of you," I told the class. " Please bear in mind that he is sharing it with you because he trusts you; that you will understand and be kind to him."
Adam's head was bent. It took a long time before he could hold it up straight. Then, ver y slowly, he unsheathed his hands from his side pockets. "I… I only have nine fingers," he declared as he held up his hands. " Please don't tease me about it."
Everybody's jaw dropped. All eyes were fixed on little Adam. Then one boy called out, " Whoever teases you, I'll take care of them."
" I'll punch them too," yelled another.
The whole class then united for little Adam. The boy sighed in relief and smiled at me. He had overcome his fear of rejection and reaped the prize for his courage.
The next morning, eight- year- old Tina brought her two- year- old brother to class. No explanation, no parent accompanying them, no note, no nothing. She was there when Adam shared his personal " secret" with the class and probably thought she'd better share hers, too.
Tina was one of my problem pupils. She was always absent, three days out of five on average. She would not tell me why. And I could never catch her parents at home. They were always out on the several occasions I went to their house. The father was a contractual carpenter and the mother did errands for neighbors.
That morning I finally realized why Tina couldn't come to class regularly. I didn't ask anymore. Instead, I picked up her little brother and carried him in my arms all morning, so Tina wouldn't be disturbed. Indeed, it was hard teaching with a little boy in my arms at the same time.
The other kids behaved very well, despite the fact that I had to excuse myself several times to take the little boy to the toilet. I was the one who was a little unsettled. I was a new teacher and was apprehensive about how the principal might think of the scene in my classroom, if she saw it. At the end of the morning session, I told Tina to find somebody to look after her little brother at home. She was again absent in the afternoon.
Now, many decades after, I see better the difference between a beginning teacher and an experienced one. The beginning teacher asks, " How am I doing?" The experienced teacher asks, " How are the children doing?" Now I know that, by teaching, the teacher also learns.
My pupils, then and now, are all my children. At the end of each school year, as the children leave school, I watch them with mixed emotions: sad because they would not be in my class anymore, yet too happy to let them move on.
Last March, thirtyfour of my children left. The afternoon of the last day of school, I stood by the classroom door, sending them off one by one. Thirty- four kids. Thirty- four futures. Thirty- four hopes.
This month I have a new batch of twenty- five, perhaps more still are coming. And I am so eager to meet them all, one by one. They are the driving force of my life. I would not be a teacher if not for these children.
Everything that the children become, the teacher also becomes. Everything about me today, all these kids – all the little Adams and the Tinas – help to create. None of them owes me anything; I grow in their company as much as they, hopefully, do in mine. But if one of them will remember me, that will be my greatest joy.
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