I go through most days thinking of Mr. Barker from 11th grade English because he not only brought us edgy literature (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) and corresponding movies we'd never have watched on our own (Cool Hand Luke), he was also reasonable, smartly wacky, and never allowed students to keep acting stupid. I frequently quote him ("Don't be sorry, be efficient."), or want to but am not sure I can pull it off ("Never teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.") He is what I want to be, and some days I think I'm close.
I also loved Mr. Carroll, who asked every few days (mildly jokingly) if I was on drugs [I was not] because my pupils were apparently often dilated. But I didn't just love him because he was seemingly concerned about my health - his attention was directed at drawing me out, making me talk. It was during the College Prep English class he taught that I discovered an appreciation for philosophy via Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance along with an everlasting love of John Keats and the Romantic poets. When I can make timely, droll remarks and connect with kids, I fondly think of Mr. Carroll.
Sometimes, like today, I recall a teacher who was not necessarily horrid (Mr. Lived-With-His-Mother-At-Forty) or ridiculously ineffective (Hello, Football-Coach-Who-Clearly-Never-Took-A-History-Course) but simply blah - the unfortunate Ms. A who taught Sophomore English. I remember her seeming too old to be sporting a perky blonde bob and though I don't recall anything specific, I believe she often attempted to sound "cool" during class discussions by using teenspeak; there was an aura of desperation surrounding this woman and while I could muster some sympathy, mostly I felt disdainful. I was a rabid reader, ready to dive in and devour whatever was put in front of me, but meek Ms. A's stumbly, mushy approach to Romeo & Juliet [which is all I remember reading/watching/doing during that semester] was a major letdown. My interest was piqued by the nuances of Shakespeare, I felt something deeper than just families at odds and young love, but our class didn't go there; we even watched Zeffirelli's steamy movie version but still - never talked about the ferocity of real passion.
I was off my game this morning during my poetry class. I came in thinking of going in one direction and at the last minute decided to change - sometimes that works in my favor but today, no. I stumbled and bumbled, trying desperately to drum up enthusiasm in the kids who insist they can't write while the ones who are already sold & eager sat uncomfortably wondering what to do next. It ended in a brief showdown with a few girls who had been chatting the entire effing time; while I didn't shriek, I did not handle them smartly and class ended with a weak wimper. When I looked in the mirror during lunch, I imagined the bland Ms. A looking back at me. It made me sad for both of us.
