One of my best friends is currently having a small crisis over an imminent teaching position in the fall. This is, in many ways, mostly entertaining for me, as I know she'll do wonderfully, and her finally having a class to teach means I can shamelessly search for items keyworded "tweed" on Etsy. (Tragically, my conscience will stop me from sneaking into her class and heckling her while disguised as a freshman.)
While bombarding her with reassurance and links to What Makes a Good Prof (eg. 1, 2), I got to thinking about what's made profs memorable (for better or worse) for me in the past. I'm not sure if this applies to everyone, but I tend to remember moments that had precious little to do with the curriculum best.
There's the time in second year where my English Lit from 1800 handed me back an essay with only the foreboding comment "See me after class," had me read her the opening paragraph, and then explain it in other words. She looked very surprised when I demonstrated a clear understanding of what I'd written down. This was the first (and only) time I've been suspected of plagiarism. (When she confirmed I was an English major, she laughed and calmed down.)
There's the time I found out my high school English prof was marrying a guy she'd met online (and I remember she really liked The Lord of the Rings).
There's the time in art class with the improbably named Mrs Love where, when we were all asked to do self-portraits using basic instructions for a symmetrical face, I demanded in all of my 15 year old angst, "What do we do if our faces aren't symmetrical?" She answered that I'd be surprised to find just how many people do have symmetrical faces... though my nose might be a bit too low, and my lips too high.
And so on.
I often worry that I will forget to thank people if I ever have to make a thank you speech. I have toyed for years with various manifestations of acknowledgements pages, confident that, if I ever have need of one, I will have drafts sitting ready. But twenty three years' worth of helpful hands is surprisingly hard to keep clear. I can remember the faces of all of my favourite teachers from as far back as kindergarten, but I'm already forgetting names.
As such, consider this part-love letter to educators, part-encouragement to Tweed, and part-record-keeping for posterity: here are some of my favourite teachers from elementary school.
- Thank you to my French teacher, from kindergarten. I don't remember your name. I do remember that you gave me two small barettes at the end of the year, with red fabric and (I think) fake white pearls, and little bits of white lace hanging from them. I don't remember what I thought of French when I was 5, but I do know going to French Immersion (because of you!) meant I had a far better grasp of language, and of cultural difference, than I would have had otherwise.
- Thank you to Madame Somers, whose name I may well be saying wrong. I remember I was a brat in grade 2. I think that was about when I started deciding I didn't like homework. My most vivid memory of your class is doing Tai Chi. At the time, I think my reaction was along the lines of "this is really weird", and wanting to laugh. In retrospect: you were bringing relaxation techniques and multicultural experiences into the classroom for seven-year-olds! How rad are you?! Also, you volunteered with the SPCA. And I think you were really nice to me. Thanks.
- Thank you to Elspeth's third(?) grade teacher. Who was maybe mine as well. It's hard to keep the years straight. My most vivid memory of you is when we got to play with your stage knife, pretending to stab ourselves at your desk. This is probably not what an educator wants to hear, but every time I see or think of stage knives now, I think of that one. I saw you a few years ago at the bank. I hope you're doing well.
- Thank you to Madame Grief, whose name I am quite positive I have just misspelled, and who, I think, had to put up with a lot of my shit. I don't remember specifics, but I do remember you were kind to me.
- No thanks to the person who didn't give me the Jeopardy point when I misspelled melanoma. I was nine and I knew the word melanoma, man. You should have given me that point for existing.
- Also, no thanks to my grade six teachers, who stood by while I was brutally harassed by my peers. Hey, remember that time I was studying Wicca as an alternate religion and already suffering all manner of hell from my peers, and their parents? Remember how a short while after I'd been studying Wicca, we started reading Harry Potter? Do you remember when my classmates scoffed at the religion I was practicing because I couldn't turn their lunchbags into toads? It would have been real cool for you to pipe up, guys. You could have averted a lot of damage. But thanks for letting my friends (who were, by that time, already avoiding me) run that experiment where we listened to classical music and saw if we wrote tests better after the fact. That was really cool.
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