Inspirational Teachers? Where?
Sat., June 14, 05:34 PM
"He was a wonderful teacher." "She changed my whole life." I hear that so often; it's usually part of a message about why one should become a teacher. Wouldn't you think that, in seventeen years of formal education, I would be able to say something like that that? Not one teacher affected me that deeply.
That's not to say that they didn't teach me and broaden my horizons. Consider Miss Deyo and Miss King, who were memorable but definitely not role models.
I can name every one of my elementary school teachers, as well as special teachers and subs, but they didn't spend much time with me. Students who could absorb the lessons were left to their own devices while the overworked teachers struggled with those who just didn't get it. There were no special classes or "enrichment." We just learned to amuse ourselves without making trouble.
The problem with leaving bright kids on their own is that they coast on past performance and never develop good study habits. When classes get tougher, they have a problem.
High school may be harder, but I could still read ahead; I often said that I did well in chemistry in spite of the teacher. There was also Miss Billingsley, a very strange English teacher (who will have her own entry, I think). She helped me a lot, but she didn't inspire me.
I suddenly realized, the inspiration came much earlier, from my dad. "Who, me?" he would have said, "I never finished high school." He needed to work to help support the family, and though he intended to go back to school, the opportunity never came. Yet he read whatever he could, and he never stopped learning. He was always passing knowledge along, often by example rather than by words. He was too humble to call himself a teacher, but he really was.
He made us curious, and he provided reference books to find out what we didn't know. He was so proud when I got my first library job. I still think of him whenever I share a book with someone else.
It is important to remember that, as long as someone still remembers, a loved one is not really gone. And we remember him all the time, most often when we realize we're using something Dad taught us. I picture M.D. as a small child, sitting on his lap while he prayed the morning service. A truly devout man, he never tried to push his religion on anyone else.
I tend to teach as he did, though I don't call myself a teacher either. It doesn't always work; remember the Boy Intern? But when it does work, well...thanks, Dad.
