OK, let me start with this disclaimer: If you're going to write about your job, you better be damn sure it's not going to offend, implicate, resemble, or otherwise identify or allude to ANYBODY, whether on purpose or accidentally. And you might as well just do it under your own name, because pseudonymns won't save your stupid behind, either. I applaud your use of writing as an outlet for your stress, but it's a lot simpler and safer to open a Word document and write your memoirs in secret.
Have you seen this article (originally by the Associated Press, but I picked it up elsewhere) about the 30-year-old "teacher" who blogged about how lazy and good-fer-nuthin' she believes her students are? I loved it. She has a (vague) point, but so do I, and here it is.
Ms. Munroe claims her students are not motivated. She rants about their lack of discipline. They are disobedient and disrespectful, she says. She even goes so far as to say that the students "are not being held accountable."
Oh, my, Ms. Munroe. What is YOUR job again? Now, before you jump all over me, let me explain. I am not copping out on behalf of a parent and his or her responsibility to raise a child with ethics, morals, and discipline. That's hugely important. But let's not let the teachers off the hook, here. I had fantastic teachers (and coaches), and they had almost if not just as much influence on shaping me as my own parents (who, as it turns out, also were teachers). I contend that if the kid's acting up in school, the teacher needs to be the disciplinarian. Don't bitch about it; make a difference. Make your subject fun. Do what your title says: TEACH.
Ms. Munroe is employed as a high school English teacher. My dream job. I've spent my life dreaming of bulletin boards and literature studies and ways to impart my love of books and authors and writing into the--granted--thick, text-messaging minds of today's kiddos. Kids are sponges, and they crave attention and approval. If she'd lay down the law and be enthusiastic about her subject, those kids would get it. I did.
My ninth-grade English teacher and my eleventh-grade English teacher were the same fellow. He was a little guy, but treated us all with respect; I heard him utter my first name only once--on graduation day. Until then, for me and everyone else, it was "Miss Rash" or "Mr. Denson." Not once did James Henry ever lose his temper with our class, but he did uphold the law of the land he set out on the very first day of school. He respected us, and we rewarded him (for the most part) by making something of ourselves like he asked us to. Mr. Henry pastored a small church in our town for a while, and I would like to think that his respect for us as humans also reflected Jesus.
My tenth-grade English teacher had one of the most disgustingly boring tasks on the planet: vocabulary. But she made it fun. To this day, I can see Rebecca Blackwood in her "Hamlet" pose, nimbly acting out the week's vocabulary words. She made the content contemporary to us. She got on our level and taught us how to use our God-given intelligence in preparation for "one day." She treated us like people, and called us that. [Y'all PG folks know what I mean, dontcha?]
My senior English teacher (who also happened to be my seventh-grade English teacher) was nothing short of hilarious. She made learning fun for us. She explained to us how to pronounce "Goethe" so we "didn't sound like we were falling off the turnip truck." She translated Old English, and we all thought she was a goddess. She forced us to memorize the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, claiming we'd remember it for the rest of our lives. We all thought she was nuts then, but 22 years later I can still recite it--in Old English, in its entirety. If you see me, test me.
She also taught me grammar. God bless you, Lori Ables, for that one sheet of purple-mimeographed paper that listed all the basic grammar rules. That's all it took to teach me the difference between "your" and "you're"; "there," "their," and "they're"; and when to use "whom" and "who." She understood how to crack into our brains and decode our language. Then she reprogrammed us a bit--with proper grammar, of course.
So say what you like about the state of the American teenager, Ms. Munroe. It's a free country. Sorry I can't stand on your side; nobody's going to ask my opinion, but I'd be all for letting you move on to a new career where you're not in charge of shaping the future. But before you go, do me a little favor and think a bit about those students. They were just doing what they could with what YOU gave them to work with. My prayer is for them to find the Mr. Henry, Mrs. Blackwood, or Mrs. Ables in their life, because REAL teachers like that are their only hope.
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