A Tale of Two Teachers
- Aug 15, 2011
“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” With those words, Charles Dickens penned one of the most memorable opening lines ever written in a novel. And while his novel revolved around the events of the French Revolution, it could just have well have been written about my high school education.
High School. Just the words bring back a flood of fond memories—basketball tournaments, spring breaks, choir tours, speech competitions, summer vacations, baseball games, first cars, first dates, and first kisses. There are some memories that are less than favorable, however. I remember bad lunch food, smelly locker rooms, the principal’s office, detention hall, zits, wedgies, standardized testing, and ENGLISH!
Yes, English. That dreaded language that everyone can speak but no one can explain. The language with 1,000 rules and ten miserable exceptions to every one of them; the language where words that sound exactly alike are spelled differently and have different meanings; the language where sentence diagrams are more complex than an architect’s drawings for a twenty story building; the language that can trace it’s alphabet back to the Greeks and whose teachers all seem to have descended from Mount Olympus!
I entered my freshman year of high school with, at best, a weak knowledge of English. Somehow, in spite of all of the homework assignments and tests, I just didn’t get it. Fortunately, I could always hold my own in spelling, and that proficiency had always salvaged my grade. As I entered the ninth grade, I had high hopes of finally getting it right.
That was, however, UNTIL SHE APPEARED! She still explodes into my memory like Jaws plunging through the raging surf. It is enough to cause me even now, as a grown man and former police officer, to break out in a cold sweat. As I recall, she was a young teacher—heavy on zeal but light on experience. She was average in appearance, neither beautiful nor homely. She wore her straight, dirty blonde hair dutifully tucked behind her ears in mid-seventies fashion, except when she wore it rolled into a bun, wrapped and turned upon her head like an oven roll. Her green eyes were always hard and peered out from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Her voice, like something from a gangster movie, was harsh and stuccato. And her laugh, you ask? Well, I never remember hearing it.
Things might have been different between us if I had just known my English. I’ll never forget the first day I ever spent in her class; it was my freshman year. Like always, I was dutifully sitting with all of my friends in the back of the room as the bell sounded. After the usual introductions, my new English teacher opened her book and began with the composition basics—the parts of speech! Whenever we resumed the journey into the inner workings of the English language, my ignorance left me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can still hear the words that would echo silently in my mind, “Please don’t call on me! Please don’t call on me!”
Well, as providence would have it, my worst nightmare became a reality. To this day, I’m not sure if she asked that fateful question on purpose, perhaps after “warnings” from other teachers, or if she asked it quite by accident. In either case, the result was the same. I remember it like it was yesterday.
“Billy, would you define a noun for the class?” she asked as her eyes bored through me.
Like J. Alfred Prufrock, I suddenly felt like a bug sprawling on the end of a pin. Essentially, I had two options. I could say something hilarious and get a good laugh, or I could tell the truth and try to win my new teacher’s heart. As the silence deepened, I opted for honesty. “I don’t know,” I ventured with an embarrassed grin, my voice little more than a whisper. I risked a great deal with that statement—my fragile freshman ego, my class status, and my teacher’s respect.
Her response shocked me. Perhaps it was the result of the cacophony of laughter that filled the room from the other students who thought I was joking. After all, no one was so stupid in English that they didn’t even know how to define a noun! Or, perhaps it was her desire to make a strong disciplinary statement—you know, all that “don’t let your students see you smile before Thanksgiving” stuff they tell young teachers. Regardless, faster than the speed of light, she emptied the seat in front of her desk and sat me in it. And there I sat—hurt, bewildered, embarrassed, and mad—until the end of my Junior year!
I remember the hours I spent studying for tests that I knew I would fail. I remember the frustration that came from being embarrassed on a regular basis. Fortunately, my other subject grades were high enough to keep me on the basketball team—the one thing in school I really loved. I really believe she would have kept me from playing if it had been within her power.
And so the animosity grew. She disliked me, and I disliked her in an ever-descending spiral of misery. I wish I could have earned frequent flyer miles on the trips I made to the principal’s office and detention hall. There is no telling how many times I could have flown across the country.
It all came to a head during my Junior year. In our community, everyone who lived downtown would bag the leaves from their beautiful trees and leave them near the road for collection. The night our homecoming basketball game (which we won against our archrivals, by the way), a group of students collected a large number of bagged leaves and deposited them in my teacher’s yard. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that she had no trees. You can imagine her surprise when she opened her front door and found her porch and lawn covered with leaves.
That wasn’t the end of it, however. When she opened her desk drawer during first period that morning and found it full of leaves, she blew a gasket. She threw a handful of leaves across the desk at me. “I know you and your lousy friends did this to me!”
Now, after three years of teaching English in our school, the list of students who despised my teacher was lengthy. But in the end, she still viewed me as her nemesis. I knew she would never believe that I wasn’t involved, so I didn’t even try to tell her. And I must admit that looking back, I’m grateful that I wasn’t a participant on that night—not even bad teachers deserve that kind of prank. But that night highlighted the epic nature of our relationship. My Dad was transferred during the summer, and I haven’t seen her since. I suppose that was a blessing—one more year together and we may both have ended up in an asylum! Yet to this day, her memory continues to haunt me.
As you might imagine, I began my Senior year with a great sense of apprehension. I was in a new school with unfamiliar teachers and classmates. The surroundings were different, but my fear of English remained. I prayed that I would survive for one more year.
I knew I was in trouble on the first day of class. I had another young English teacher named Hiller Ann Spires, and she was the proto-typical, Senior English teacher. As you know, teachers of Senior English are always the hardest and meanest of teachers—or so we believed. It didn’t take me long to realize that her nickname, “Killer Ann,” was well deserved. Once again, as if following some primordial English ritual, we began with a brief review of the parts of speech. Fortunately, I was sitting behind a beautiful, young woman who took pity on me.
Over the years I had developed a sort of “sixth sense” when it came to English class, and I was able to predict with great accuracy when the teacher would call on me. I would nonchalantly lean forward and get the answer to the next question in the textbook when I sensed it would be my turn to respond. This worked for a while, but Ms. Spires began to detect my scheme, and she was soon able to circumvent it.
I’ll never forget the first time I told her that I didn’t know an answer. I sat with head bowed, realizing that I was about to get blasted in front of a group of relative strangers. But the most amazing thing happened! Instead of rebuke, she responded with a genuine concern and respect for who I was. Instead of patronizing me, she explained patiently the solution to grammatical problem with which I was struggling. In that moment, it was if the first rays of comprehension began to dawn in my darkened understanding.
Some time later, she assigned us the dreaded Senior writing journal. To complete this assignment, we had to write a variety of poems and stories. I need not describe my anxiety. I had never attempted anything like that before. I labored and struggled against the whiteness of the page, as I sought to put my thoughts into words. After our first several exercises, I turned in my notebook and waited with trepidation for it to be returned.
Finally, the day arrived. I held the notebook with shaking hands, as my thoughts raced. I still remember thinking, “I hope I get at least a D.” Slowly, I opened my journal. In bold red letters was the grade: B! I let out a yelp as a giant smile exploded across my face. That grade seemed more wonderful to me than any of the trophies I had ever received. Ms. Spires comments were even better—she thought I had some talent and felt that I could be a good writer. With one stroke of her pen, she changed my whole perspective about English. Soon, the grammar began to click, and my writing continued to improve. By the end of my Senior year, and for the first time in my life, I actually enjoyed English!
Much has changed in my life since that wonderful day when I opened my writing journal. I went on to major in English in college, and I earned a Master’s degree in Professional Writing. From there, I earned a Master’s of Divinity degree and a Ph.D. in Homiletics. And, in what may be the single greatest irony in my life, I taught a year of High School English, as well as more than eight years as an adjunctive professor of English Composition at the college level. I’ve written for numerous publications, completed my dissertation, and recently co-authored a college textbook on Preaching.
What made the difference in my Tale of Two Teachers? A teacher who cared. One who was able to look past the façade and see the fear; one who could look past the problems and see the potential; one who demonstrated concern, not criticism. Oh, Ms. Spires was just as harried as every other teacher, with homeroom duties, senior-class-sponsor responsibilities, faculty meetings, debate team, drama, and oversight of the yearbook. But she kept the main thing the main thing—her students. For Ms. Spires, teaching wasn’t just a career—it was a ministry. It was a way to make a lifetime investment in the life of young man or woman.
And so I write to teachers everywhere, from elementary school to the university. Where do you fall in my Tale of Two Teachers? Which type of teacher are you? Are you fed up with your students or filled with a desire to make a difference in their lives? Some teachers, like Ms. Spires, begin every year with enthusiasm and excitement. They can’t wait to get into the classroom. They are driven by a desire to make a difference in the life of a student, and that passion can be seen in everything they do.
Others, perhaps, have lost sight of the vision. They’ve lost the motivation and zeal that led them into the teaching profession. The years of stress and frustration have left many with a deepening feeling of futility. Many parents no longer seem to care, and their kids mirror those attitudes. Often, they fail to see any visible signs of progress. As a result, they’re just logging their 180 days a year, trying to stay sane in the process.
Still other teachers may find themselves somewhere in-between. They’ve lost some of their enthusiasm, but they still carry the desire to make a difference. They really want to make a contribution that will result in the success of a student. They’re just not sure anymore if that is really possible.
I don’t know which category would best describe you. Regardless, I do know that you can recapture your desire to make a difference. You may not have the incredible energy of a first year teacher seeking tenure, but you do have the tools at your disposal to impact a life.
Now, I know that you can’t reach them all. Some students will never let you get close enough to try. Other will never be motivated enough to succeed. But there are scores of students, just like me, who are waiting for a special touch from you. He is the introvert, who sits waiting quietly for someone to draw him out of his shell. She is the student with ADHD, who needs a dose of loving instruction as much as her next dose of medication. He is the class clown, who needs a sense of self-worth more than his next laugh. She is the “brainiac,” who needs friends as much as her “A” average. And then there is the under-achiever who, like me, needs a teacher who will look past his problems and see his potential.
So what will it be? You have to make an individual decision about the kind of teacher you will be, regardless of the attitudes of the teachers around you. But do me a favor. When the workload begins to pile up, and the meetings never end; when the grades are poor, and some people are ready to lay the blame at your feet; when your patience is worn thin, and your nerves are frayed—look at your students and remember my Tale of Two Teachers. And as you gaze at their faces, don’t forget that some of them are counting on you to change their lives forever!
EPILOGUE
While I still fear her, I’ve never again seen my English teacher from those early years of High School. I can only hope she no longer torments her students. For that matter, she may be in torment herself by now. Ms. Spires went on to earn her doctorate in education, and she now teaches at a major university in the southeast. I had the pleasure of calling her a number of years ago to thank her for the amazing contribution she had made to my life, and I wrote this “Tale”, in part, as my tribute to her. And the beautiful, young woman who used to help me in class during my Senior year? Well, she is now my wife of 23 years! And, she is still able to give me just the right answers when I need them. So, I guess it is true. Sometimes you do get to live happily ever after!
