Memories of teachers
This morning, tying my shoes brought to mind my primary school teachers and how good they were. Because my mother did two things when I was five years old, one scene is still vivid in my mind: she bulldozed my first school into having me begin first grade almost four months before my sixth birthday, when I was even more immature than the average boy of that age; and, somewhat paradoxically, she was still treating me as though I were two or three years old and tying my shoes for me and doing a lot of tasks related to dressing.
The memorable scene occurred in the third first-grade class I was in. Whether it was weather-related or my shoes had come untied, at the end of the school day I was unable to accomplish some procedure involving shoes or galoshes. The teacher would not help me with this chore; I'm not sure how long this whole thing took, but I know that my mother ended up in the classroom, and the teacher would not allow her to assist me, either. It took one tough lady to stand up to my tall, overbearing, brick-wall-willed mother. If I didn't end up bawling, I very likely was close to it. Eventually, I must have got my feet properly covered for the situation.
What impresses me today is how spot-on right the teacher was in that situation and how well she handled it. The teachers who oversaw my education in grades one through three must have been really effective at what they did, simply because of how adept I became at reading, writing, and arithmetic. My grades from the seventh grade on through high school were abysmally bad, but that was not due to ineptness or poor teaching on the part of any of the teachers. What they weren't able to teach me were self-discipline, how to manage my own academic behavior, and why I should strive to excel to the level of which I was capable. That, however, was not their fault nor their responsibility; it was my parents'.
The memorable scene occurred in the third first-grade class I was in. Whether it was weather-related or my shoes had come untied, at the end of the school day I was unable to accomplish some procedure involving shoes or galoshes. The teacher would not help me with this chore; I'm not sure how long this whole thing took, but I know that my mother ended up in the classroom, and the teacher would not allow her to assist me, either. It took one tough lady to stand up to my tall, overbearing, brick-wall-willed mother. If I didn't end up bawling, I very likely was close to it. Eventually, I must have got my feet properly covered for the situation.
What impresses me today is how spot-on right the teacher was in that situation and how well she handled it. The teachers who oversaw my education in grades one through three must have been really effective at what they did, simply because of how adept I became at reading, writing, and arithmetic. My grades from the seventh grade on through high school were abysmally bad, but that was not due to ineptness or poor teaching on the part of any of the teachers. What they weren't able to teach me were self-discipline, how to manage my own academic behavior, and why I should strive to excel to the level of which I was capable. That, however, was not their fault nor their responsibility; it was my parents'.