Teaching Then and Now

Horace Mann has been providing insurance and investment services to teachers for 70 years.  I am a customer.  I received this celebratory flyer from the company and I was immediately transported back many years.  There I stand at the front of the classroom in the old Tipton High School building, these rows of desks fastened to runners such that the custodian can sweep, move the row, sweep, oil the wooden floors.  Each  morning the rows are a few feet left or right of the position they occupied the previous day.

The slate boards, the chalk rails, the blonde maple teacher's desk all as they were when they represented the furnishings in my fiefdom.

Now if you read my scrawls on the advertisement you might mistakenly conclude that I did not like my job.  But if you have been reading String Too Short to Tie for any length of time you know that I considered my job as a teacher to be the best job in the world.  Of course, that includes my tasks as a teacher from the office as principal of a school in the last eighteen years of my career.  Anyway, the reason I am happy that someone else is now occupying the teaching position is that teaching and life itself are ever-changing.  It is not that I would not appreciate the new technologies or even new techniques, but rather it is the case that we serve during a season of service in our lives, then we pass the torch on to the young, to those with the strength, enthusiasm, and endurance to carry on with the task.

Bless you, teachers, wherever you practice your art.  I would not trade places with you.  Nor, I think, would you want to trade with me.  It's all good.

Message to Timothy and Me

" Run away from infantile indulgence. Run after mature righteousness—faith, love, peace—joining those who are in honest and serious prayer before God. Refuse to get involved in inane discussions; they always end up in fights. God’s servant must not be argumentative, but a gentle listener and a teacher who keeps cool, working firmly but patiently with those who refuse to obey. You never know how or when God might sober them up with a change of heart and a turning to the truth, enabling them to escape the Devil’s trap, where they are caught and held captive, forced to run his errands."  2 Timothy 22-26  The Message

Here is a passage from instructions that an imprisoned Paul wrote to Timothy. The day and the culture were vastly different from ours in many ways, yet truth is eternal and immutable.  This speaks to me today; would that it would speak loud and clear to all who attach the name of Christ to their belief system.  We are called to be gentle listeners and cool teachers, firm and patient in our work for the Lord.  We are not called to be hammers or cudgels.

(If your preference in scripture is the King James, or the NIV, or some other version, go there and read the passage.  It will say the same thing, different wording perhaps.  But the charge is the same.) 

Image: Detail from Rembrandt's St. Paul in Prison

Fork in the Road: Five

Our fantasy tour down the corporate highway ended in precipitous dismissal and found me unemployed at age fifty, and greatly encumbered with "things."

In the real world, I chose the fork that led to the sixth-grade classroom.  Other than having completed a four-year degree in philosophy and possessing a willingness to give it a shot, I had virtually no preparation for dealing with eleven- and twelve-year old kids.  Thus it was that without doubt I learned a great deal more than did my students.

I took to teaching like a fledgling to the air.  That is to say, there was some hopping along the ground and some flopping in flight before a comfort level was achieved.  But this was my metier, and I came to love my work.  The salary was almost forty percent less than what I had been earning in my factory job. Even so, we were able to buy a new car, albeit a Valiant was certainly entry-level transportation.

At the end of my third year the trustee presented me with a new contract for the following year.  I requested more money than he offered.  He asserted that the offer was quite generous, and though they loved my work, no more money would be forthcoming.  I delayed the signing of the contract and started looking for another position.  I was offered a job in a community forty miles distant at a  salary $100 greater than I had been offered.  That was $100 more for the year.  I signed the contract and wrote a letter of resignation which I hand-delivered to my trustee.  He was floored.  "Well," he said, "we bring new teachers into the fold and groom them into quality employees, then they leave for more money."

Mr. T came to my classroom two days later with a new contract, the amount offered was yet another $100 more than what I had signed for.  "I have already signed with another school district," I reminded him.  

"Not a problem," he replied.  "So long as one resigns a couple of weeks before the school year starts everything is perfectly fine.  People do it all the time."

Another fork in the road.  Do I break my agreement with someone I don't know and accept more money from someone I do?  Do I honor my signature?

Zelda's Interview

A few years ago when I was in the mood for reflections on the career, I wrote a number of items about school, both as a student and as a teacher.  I was scrolling through the archives and this one appeared.  Without apology, I repost this item with minor revisions.

We had received a resignation from one of the elementary music teachers. As per standard procedure, the vacancy was first posted within the school system; then the notice of position available was posted at selected colleges and universities.

Several applications and resumes had arrived on my desk.  I had selected four applicants to invite to interviews. In fact, I had already seen two very well qualified applicants when I received a phone call from a young lady who lived in a remote part of the state, 120 or so miles from our school. She had just seen the post at the university of which she was a graduate, and would be delighted to bring her curriculum vitae with her when she came to interview. I told her that the application date had expired, and we were already well into the interview process. She, in her bright and well-educated manner, assured me that she knew for a certainty that she was just the person for the job, and I did not want to miss the opportunity of a lifetime. I relented, granted her an interview date.

Since writing "the young lady" repeatedly would get tedious, I shall call her Zelda.  Zelda arrived exactly two minutes before the appointed time. Good. I like punctuality. I find "too early" to be almost as annoying as "late." My admin assistant ushered her into my office and made the introductions. Zelda, beaming smile in place, stepped forward, offering me her hand. Her handshake was firm, holding on neither too long nor too briefly. Good. I like her already.

As Zelda was seated in the guest chair, I observed that she was dressed professionally, a quite pleasant appearance with nothing out of place. Stylish, too. I'd tell you all about the Louis Vuitton accessories, the Manolos and so on, but I wouldn't recognize any of that if I saw it

As I glanced through her resume, I asked the leading questions, background, training, basis for choice of career. You know, carefully avoiding the questions one is "not allowed to ask." Zelda assured me that she loved children, had been very successful academically and was avidly looking forward to moving into our music program and sharing her expertise with our kids.

I asked Zelda what musical instruments she played. "Oh," she said, "I don't play." "But," I said, "you do play piano, don't you?" Well, no, she doesn't. I asked how, then, would you expect to teach music wherein not only accompaniment to singing is expected, but the basis for an understanding of musical concepts is to be taught? Oh, Zelda brightly assured me, I would use records.

Trust me, I wanted to ask, "Can you play a phonograph?" But I didn't. As suavely as I could and with the use of as little time as necessary, I got her out the door and on her way home. I did offer her a few words of kind professional advice, and I hope she took them to heart. I do hope, as well, that she has had a happy and productive life. Just not teaching music to elementary students.

It is my belief that Zelda's lack of expertise in the field in which
she was applying may well have not been entirely her fault.  I mean, she
was a university graduate with a license to teach.  Sigh.

Mail Pouch or Kentucky Twist?

A little while ago I had occasion to call at a local funeral home.  Now the proprietors are neighbors, friends, people I have known since they were children, yet a visit to their establishment is almost always connected with a loss of a friend or acquaintance.  In this instance, the decedent was an acquaintance of many years and a man for whom I had great respect.

For eight years he had been a member of the school board, and thus in a manner of speaking, my employer.  Later, his daughter was a teacher on my staff.  It was for her primarily that I made the call, for Don was no longer with us.  I'm sure it didn't matter to him one way or the other.

Following a wait in line for over an hour, I was privileged to visit with Don's family members for a few moments.  Then I went into a parlor where many people were gathered.  Here it was that a young man of, say forty-something, approached me.

" Mr. L!  Hi, do you remember me?"  (Always the first question the guys ask thirty years after our last encounter.)

"Of course," I said.  "How are you, Justin?"  (This part was easy, since I had just visited with his sister a few minutes earlier.  She had pointed him out across the room.)

"Remember how you tried to get me to give up chaw?" Justin asked.

"I'll never forget it," I replied.  Justin was a student in my school for six years, kindergarten through grade five.  The chewing tobacco issue came up in his second grade year.  It never went away.  "Hope you've dropped that foolishness."

"Nah.  Still chew."  Said, apparently with a great deal of pride, as though his standing there before me in apparent good health somehow proved he was right.  And coincidentally, that I was wrong.

"Sorry to hear it.  But it is good to see you again."  We chatted a few minutes about his doings, and I headed home.

Quite possibly a  lot of our efforts, well-intentioned as they may be, go for naught.

Off to Town, Tra La!

 The bike ride to town yielded some interesting observations.  First, note the blue sky!  It has been dry, the grass in the lawn is going to seed.  BBBH wanted to mow, but I said, "Let it seed.  Maybe it'll fill in some spots that need it."  Ever the optimist.

 The state highway workers were painting the crosswalk stripes.  The job seems to have required six men and two trucks; you know, one to run the blower to get the dust off, one to run the paint machine to lay the stripe, one to stand in the middle of the street with an orange sign, and three to watch the proceedings.  I am gratified to note that we, the public, are doing our part to ease the unemployment situation.

I arrived at the library to find this art display extending thirty feet along the sidewalk.  This immediately prompted memories.

Forty years ago this fall we opened a new school campus housing an elementary school and a middle school.  Quite early in the year, an art teacher asked me if she might allow the children to do chalk drawings on the walkways in an inner courtyard between the library and the fifth grade classrooms.  I thought it a splendid idea, and the kiddos went to work.  What talent, what effort, what a lot of colored chalk they used!  I was invited to view the final result.  I surveyed the entire area very carefully and with real appreciation.  The kids eagerly awaited my assessment.  "It is gorgeous, it is fantastic!" I exclaimed, then proceeded to comment on each area of work.  "What about this one?  Do you like this?"  It was an exciting moment in life of a new school and a new school year.

At 12:35 the following morning the phone awakened me.  Heart thumping, mind racing, for a call this time of night had always been bad news in my experience, I picked up the receiver and managed to mumble a "hello."

"Lacy," a voice demanded, "did you authorize that disfigurement of the grounds that that art teacher allowed in the courtyard?"  Before he finished the question I realized it was my boss, the Superintendent of Schools.  Hastily determining that conservation of words and the briefest and most honest answer would best serve the situation, I replied, "Yes, sir.  I did."  He grunted a "Huh," and said, "Goodnight, then."

Back in the Day

I was young and green and possessed of the belief that I could do anything I put my mind and my effort to.  So I took a job teaching sixth graders, notwithstanding that the only experience I had with that was my own attendance as a child in a sixth grade class.

As it turned out, this small township school provided me with twenty-four sixth grade students for whom I was responsible  from 7:50 A.M. until 3:20 P.M., except during the weeks that I had "late bus duty."  Then I got to go home at four.

This was called a "self-contained classroom," which simply meant that I got to present the entire curriculum to the learners, including art.  I am not an artist, had no practical experience in art beyond a course in art history (which I liked very much) and my own coloring-book when I was a wee child.

So, naturally in my belief that I could succeed at anything, including the teaching of art lessons to these youngsters, I enrolled in "Teaching Art in the Elementary Classroom."  I still have a few examples of the efforts I made in order to learn the presentation of a lesson or a technique to the students.

The first example is called  "batik."  Almost convinced myself I had talent.   The second is a painting-- a finger painting.  I successfully removed the mess from my hands and clothing.  My favorite piece is a chalk drawing.  If I find it somewhere in all this stuff, I may post it later.