Sometimes You Teach, Sometimes You Learn

I looked like a teacher, khaki pants, a pinstripe shirt and modest necktie.  I was coming to teaching several years later than most and old enough to look seasoned. I was well-read and well-traveled.  What could go wrong?  I just wanted to get my student teaching semester at Rock Hill High under my belt so I could begin to change lives and revolutionize education and generally make the world a better place.  

My patient mentor teacher, Susan Kelly taught four classes of English and one of World History and let me begin my student teaching by taking over a couple of classes in American Literature. Things went pretty well. They were college prep classes and I felt like I could catch their attention on most days. 

When Susan found out that I had spent several weeks traveling in Europe and taking lots of photos, she asked me to create a slide show for a couple of combined world history classes. (For slide show, think Power Point but in a primitive format)

I was delighted to show my photos and led the students on a visual tour of medieval castles and churches in England and France. I was more than proud to give these kids an insight to a world outside their own experience and I waxed on about historical dates and places. When I finished, I asked if there were any questions.

There were a couple of hands that went up and I was prepared for almost anything, well, almost anything. The first question taught me more than my slide show had taught the class. 

“Did you stay overnight?” a tenth-grade girl asked in all seriousness. 

I didn’t have a smart answer and knew that it was a legitimate question because I had provided nothing but foolish facts. She and most of the class had no context with which to understand what I was doing. I had not given them any scaffolding to build on and as far as she knew, I could have been in Disneyland. I was not teaching to the classes needs, I was showing off. I had left them with a series of nice pictures and nothing else. Never again would I try to teach anything without supplying context. 

I finished my student teaching at the end of the fall semester and was fortunate that there was a mid-year vacancy at Fort Mill High. I showed up for my interview and faced Principal Jim Walser across the desk.

This was the same Jim Walser who was my coach when I attended Fort Mill High as a student and who had asked me if I would ever deserve a new pair of Converse basketball shoes, who had watched me give up football, and who had caught me smoking after the last basketball game. To compound my humiliation on that day, he had my lackluster high school record right there in front of him. I led with an apology.

“I am not the same person I was in high school,” I told him.

“I didn’t have any problem with you in high school,” he said. “I am glad to have you here. My advice is to teach this semester and see how you like it. If you hate it, try one more year then, if you still hate it, do something else.  Everyone is not cut out to be a teacher.”

My first students were freshmen who had spent weeks with a substitute and knew every trick. I knew zero tricks and tried to come in as Mr. Nice Guy. Teachers can be nice but, I quickly learned, only after they earn the respect of the students. This was the real thing. My mentor teacher could not step in and calm the class down. 

I managed to stay out of trouble with the main office most of the time during my first couple of years.

The Principal of Fort Mill High School, Jim Walser, was a tall man, about 6’4” and had an amazing mane of thick jet black hair. He had grown up in the 1950’s and had the Fonzie like habit of taking out his comb and running it through his hair. Although he was a gentle man, he had a deep voice and students paid attention when he talked.

One student in particular, paid attention. Eddie Sutton worked with the school newspaper, The Loudspeaker. This was after I had been at the school for a couple of years I was the advisor for the paper. We had just changed from mimeograph to off-set printing which allowed us to run photos and even cartoons. Eddie was and is a talented cartoonist and brought me his first comic strip for the paper. It was great looking, funny and perfect except for one thing. The strip was called “Hall Wars” and the main character was Darth Walser, complete with a black helmet of hair and his fabled “Light Comb.”  It was too good to just turn down so off I went to the office to see if I could run it without losing my job.  Mr. Walser gave me his stern look but I knew him well enough to realize we were okay. We ran with it and I believe he liked it and the continuing saga of Darth Walser.

But don’t think that things were all that serious. I was perfectly willing to look foolish in order to keep a class interested. More than once I dressed like Sherlock Holmes or burst into song or choked up at a piece of writing that flowed like a cool mountain stream.

More than once, I told an outright lie.  I had a class of 9th graders once in the 70s.  They were not worldly and we had a new entry on the school lunch menu. 

“What is “lasagna” one wide-eyed innocent asked.

My better Angel had taken the day off and mischief whispered in my ear.

“Don’t worry,” I said.  “It is really good, Kind of like spaghetti but different.”

“But what is it?” she asked. And several others had joined in now.

“Okay, but it is really good and you will like it.” I stalled to build a little tension.

“A lasagna is a small Italian weasel.”  I answered hesitantly. “But don’t let that put you off.  It is great with cheese and tomato sauce.”

The class was skeptical. They had caught me stretching the truth out of shape more than once and I was proud when they did. I taught by the Socratic Method and wanted them to learn not to believe everything they heard.

When the bell rang, they were off to the cafeteria, probably to avoid the lasagna. They were a college prep class and I knew that almost all of them had science class after lunch. My demons were in full control now and during lunch, I had a word with Ms. Monteith, the science teacher.

I was sure that they couldn’t resist testing my story in biology class. They asked about lasagna almost as soon as they entered her class.

On cue, she replied, “A lasagna is a small Italian weasel.”

My better angel gave me a difficult time overnight so I confessed my transgression the next day. 

Later in my career, on returning from a post-divorce sabbatical, I took a position teaching Honors and CP English at Chester High School. I had some great students and having grown older but not wiser, could not resist a little entertainment to lighten the day. I had one student, let’s call him Mark, who loved to give me a hard time. He was always ready for a joke. Once I had him take a note to the office during class.

Unless you know Chester High School, you cannot know the labyrinth it is. It consists of a central area with offices and a library. Attached are pods of six classrooms. The pods are almost identical and it is all too easy to get turned around and confuse one pod for another. 

When Mark left the class, I had all the students gather their belongings and move to a corner of the room invisible through the window slit on the door. I turned out the lights and locked the door. We waited, quietly, and listened for the sound of the door handle. We heard it rattle once, then again. Then there was a knock. Then a call. As soon as I felt Mark had walked back up the hall to check his bearings, we all moved back to our desks, turned on the lights and unlocked the door. When Mark returned the second time, class was proceeding as usual and I questioned him as to why it took so long to deliver that note. The class followed my lead and everyone continued as though nothing had happened. 

Mark was sure that we had pranked him but no one would admit it.  Mark became a teacher and years later, I had an opportunity to teach along side him.

The first thing he said to me on our first day of school was, “Come on, Mr. Hill.  I know y’all were in the classroom that day.”

I again behaved as if I did not know what he was talking about. 

I must not have done too much damage.  He turned out to be one of the best teachers anywhere around and uses his sense of humor to keep his students interested and involved.

There are more stories…many more, but I will save those for a later episode.  

Albert Einstein, a pretty smart guy, said “Education is not the learning of facts, but it’s rather training the mind to think.” A good teacher models respect, self-control and a healthy attitude toward lifelong learning. If, along the way, a little humor slips into the lesson, then just maybe, it works as the dash of hot sauce that gives the lesson a little kick.

I know I was never hard enough on my classes and was not good at teaching grammar skills in isolation. I was good, I think, at motivation. I wanted every student who entered my class to be moved by the great thoughts and the sublime beauty of the English language. It was not an easy thing to distract them from sports and the opposite sex. 

So maybe my reach exceeded my grasp.  I like to believe most of my students left my class with more than they carried in. They had read some great literature, had been challenged to think and had learned a little about expressing themselves on paper. A few, maybe several and perhaps even a couple of handfuls, left with a spark that I believe I helped ignite. You know who you are and I thank you for the kind words you have said over the years.