Mean Teacher II

The unfortunate thing about enjoying a high as elevated as a year abroad in the South of France, is that the corresponding low is pretty far down there. My senior year in college, which included my teaching internship and my French thesis, sucked balls, for me and anyone foolish enough to get near me. Honestly, I was mental.

My college’s education department was two whole professors strong. One, the redoubtable Dr. Mitchell, who had called my parents while I was in France and set this career track in motion (I describe her as the woman whose fault it is that I’m in education), was unflagging in her wholesale support of me. The other, and I’ll be nice and not name her, called ‘em as she saw ‘em and could only see the human train wreck I was during that time, and was as unenthusiastic about my career prospects as Dr. Mitchell was enthusiastic.

That was fun.

But the person I pity the most was my master teacher, under whom I did the actual student teaching. Even today, nine years after her retirement and three years after her far-too-early passing, folks in the district who knew her get misty eyed when one mentions her name. Not only was she an excellent teacher, but she was the soul of kindness and thoughtfulness and did as much for the adults she worked with as for the kids.

I must have driven her crazy. I was consistently unprepared, prone to bursting into tears at any criticism, and liable to blush whenever I had to speak to one student in particular who was really, really cute. I also never dressed appropriately and probably was argumentative.

I have a tendency to want to reinvent the wheel on a daily basis, which, for a teacher means, coming up with super-elaborate, extensive plans that require endless work in the execution. It’s cool if you’re experienced, organized and efficient, but it’s a recipe for disaster when you are, as I was, none of these things. I’d come in with all of these fancy ideas, but none of the understanding to see their flaws nor the energy to execute them, and my master teacher would do her best to talk me out of it.

Anyway, it wasn’t a fun time for anybody (probably least of all the students). Later, when I was applying for jobs, a letter of recommendation I had requested from the Professor Who Was Not Dr. Mitchell fell into my hands (as it were) and was remarkably unflattering (which you’re not supposed to do, if I understand the protocol, nay, the legality of letters of recommendation, but that’s okay). And then it was no longer such a mystery as to why nobody would hire me.

Clearly, I was destined for greatness.

posted by Holley Wilson Mayville @ 5:06 PM