Once a teacher, always a teacher
Along time ago, whenIwasbarely in my 20s, I was called upon by the high school from which I’d graduated to substitute for a teacher who unexpectedly couldn’t complete the school year. It was March, and I was to be married in June. With all of the thoughtfulness and weighing of the pros and cons an erstwhile young adult could muster (which was to say: none), I replied, “Sure, why not?”
I quit my job at the department store not far from my home where I was selling drapes. (Don’t ask.) Over the weekend, I reported for duty in a room where I had gotten into enough trouble barely a few years ago that I was surprised that the principal didn’t remember me for the occasional visit I’d been “encouraged” to make to her office. In truth, I was a good student, particularly sound in English; nevertheless, I had the propensity to distract my fellow students with the occasional note passed around the classroom, or (horrors!) a very inaccurate drawing of any well-known figure wewerestudying in American history held over my head while the teacher’s back was turned.
I had no idea what a profound impact that decision would have on my life. I gathered the previous teacher’s plans, roll book, ungraded compositions and textbooks and took them home. In two days, I had relearned poetry rhyme schemes, literary figures of speech and a schedule of classes to challenge the most experienced educator. A piece of cake, I thought.
On Monday, I faced the fresh faces of four sections of English 1. I wasn’t scared, and I wasn’t nervous. How hard could this be? And so began the temporary job that became a career. We began diagramming sentences, one of my favorite things to do even today. (I know, I know, what a nerd!) I learned the students’ names quickly, I changed the bulletin boards reluctantly, and I spoke to the parents of recalcitrant children with surprising eloquence. (If I do say so myself.) And, amazingly, I was putting in about 10 hours a day in teaching, correcting and preparing for the exorbitant salary of $100 a week.
When June came, as we closed up the school for the summer and my wedding loomed three weeks away, I was thinking about what had happened in those few months. I’d actually made an impact, I thought, though it would be years before I ever heard that from former students. And I wanted more. I was delighted that I was asked back for a full year, and despite my youth, would be successful for another 12 years after that. I didn’t make much, but frankly I loved it. It is the most rewarding job I’ve ever held. And it was my experience as a teacher that got me my next job (and a first move from Baltimore) as a corporate trainer.
Fast forward 35 years (wow!), moves to and from a few cities, and jobs of progressive responsibility in hospitality, banking and health care, where I mentored many. And I am retired. But last week, I began having “the” dream again: I’m starting school, and I cannot find my Plan Book. The students are sitting expectedly in front of me, and I have no idea what to do. In fact, I am not even aware that September is coming until I begin having that dream — every year the only notice I get that it’s time to go back to school.
As I hang my handbill on my condo’s bulletin board now, saying I am “a master’s prepared tutor willing to help area students,” I realize that I always have been a teacher, even when I wasn’t in the classroom.