Students across the nation are in exam mode. It's the end of the semester for nearly everyone in school, and both teachers and students are scrambling to turn in papers, grades, projects, etc. This brings to mind my past exams... past teachers... people who taught me to think the way I think...
I guess I was lucky. I can think of only one teacher who did me any educational harm. Only one teacher actively stifled my creativity, my self-confidence. So, since there's only one scratch on my record, I'd rather not waste my energy complaining. My school days are among my favorite memories. I used to dread summer... it took me away from my books, new ideas, and inspiring instructors...
When I was in first grade, my mother taught in the section of my elementary school designed for children with physical disabilities. She used to bring me to school with her, rather early in the morning, before any of the other kids arrived. This gave me a chance to get to know some of the other teachers... one in particular, Mr. Patrick, who was an artist of sorts. He encouraged all of my potential talents. We would talk in the mornings or after school, and he would ask me what was on my mind. Whatever I told him, he would offer me little art projects to guide me through my feelings. He told me to write poems, sing and compose songs, create plays and skits, etc... and his expectations were only that I did these things. I'd show him my work after completing one of his assignments, and he never criticized me. Sometimes he would help me elaborate on a theme or derive even more stories and poems from originals, but he never voiced dislike for what I created. All he cared was that I become an artist.
In second grade, my teacher was asked to teach a rap about drugs to her class. We were supposed to perform this song in front of the entire school for some special event. During the first practice, she heard my voice over the muttering of bored students (I had been in acting classes outside of school for three years by this point in time). She singled me out, and when the performance day finally arrived, I performed the rap by myself with the rest of the class reciting the chorus in between verses. I'm only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still know most of that rap...
In fourth grade, I met a woman that I would wish for sometime were my step-mother (my own step-mother was not terribly fond of me). Ms. Babcock was beautiful, smart, and feisty. She treated us with the same familiarity she would her own children. She encouraged thoughtful answers... meaning we learned to close the book and speak for ourselves. If you read it, then you knew it. Use your own words. One day, and I can't remember what set her off, she went on this long tangent... she went around the room and told the entire class what she thought of every single one of us. Some of us were lazy, some of us were funny, some of us needed to get over ourselves. I was a little nervous, naturally, when she finally came to me. "Now you all know I love her," she said pointing to me, and moved on. She was one of the first people in my life to make me feel significant, special to someone. Later that year, our teacher was in an accident major enough that we were assigned a temporary, regular substitute. While this stand-in teacher was very kind, and became my first pen pal, I was devastated to have to get through about three months of fourth grade without Ms. Babcock.
Something inside me woke up in sixth grade... and that is all due to my homeroom teacher. She was in charge of our English lessons and assigned us quite a bit of creative writing. When Author Day was around the corner, she wanted us to begin working on longer works of fiction (more than three pages... mine ended up close to 15). She insisted that we write an intriguing first line... something that popped out at the reader and made him or her want to read on. The day we presented these first lines, I was towards the back of the last row. I waited impatiently for my turn... waited through many indifferent, silly, or boring first lines. When she finally nodded at my desk, I screamed out my first line (I had created a mother reprimanding her child for drawing on the wall). My teacher didn't say a word. She crooked her finger and curled it as if to say, "Come here." I walked towards her desk with my paper. She pulled out a spare desk, put it at the front of the room, and then asked me to sit and read the rest of what I wrote. Each week after, I was asked to read aloud each new installment of my work. This teacher had put me in a position to have a following, a group of readers who wanted to hear more of my story. She gave me the responsibility to keep their attention with my writing. Soon, I had people asking me in the hallways between classes to tell them what was going to happen next. It was one of those very rare moments during the preteen experience when you feel smart and successful.
In high school, the most influential of my teachers was the one who would later "adopt me," in a manner of speaking. The first year I knew him, he gave me extra reports to do outside of class. These reports were not graded. He just decided I needed the extra challenge. We spent a great deal of time talking after school. During these talks, he would pull out everything I thought I knew from my head, clean it up, and shove it back in. He was really a life coach, someone who broke down my misconceptions and opened my eyes to the world as it is beyond the arrogance of adolescence. He taught me how to read people, how to tell by what they do, or don't do, the sort of person they could be... and in turn, how to deal with my findings. He taught me to stop hanging my heart on the mistakes made by my father. I could go on for pages and pages... but it would be trite to list his accomplishments when it comes to my personal education. You know how we all say about one person or another that we wouldn't be who we are without him or her? Aside from our parents and those who grew up with us, there is no purer example of a presence that shaped a soul than this man to me. That was not his job... to help me grow up... to do better than ask me to regurgitate facts onto a test sheet... but he did.
In college, I certainly encountered a number of different sorts of academics... one of the cleverest lessons I ever learned was during a Biology exam. Our professor passed out the test sheets, casually mentioned that we should read the instructions before beginning, and we were given one hour. I dove into test mode and carefully filled out my answers. I took up the entire hour to look over my exam which made me the last student to turn in my work. Seeing that everyone had left the room, my professor chuckled as he took my paper from me. "Did you read the instructions?" he asked me, smiling kindly. "Of course," I said, wondering suddenly if I actually had. "Read them again," he handed my paper back to me, "Right there at the top of the page." The instructions read something along the lines of: You will have one hour to complete the questions below. Please use pencil or pen, black or blue ink only. For an automatic passing grade, simply fill out your name, the date, and answer the very last question on this exam. Please, do your own work. I felt so silly... but it certainly made an impression on me. I won't say I always read out all the instructions on my exams after that, but I definitely paid closer attention to what it was each individual professor was actually asking of me.
I will admit that one of my favorite professors was that sort of "receptacle" teacher... my first philosophy professor. He stood at the front of the room, lectured, and his exams were based on his words and the readings. All we were expected to do was regurgitate twice per semester what he had said during class. However, he was very open to questions and was able to offer a single answer in a number of different ways in order to make the concept make sense to pretty much anyone. It was his ability to work unrehearsed with anything that was thrown to him that prepared me for less versatile "receptacle" teachers. His creativity inspired me to demand more from my proud academic lecturers and, if they were unable to deliver, I demanded more of myself. I would find another book or another expert that would clear my confusion, illuminate the possibilities.
As long as I live, I will be in debt to Dr. Long. He was the ideal professor, in my mind. He would offer guidelines within projects, but you had absolute freedom as to the presentation of the material as well as the subject matter. He was my American Literature professor and our grade was broken into four parts: a rare books project, a museum project, a performing arts project, and the final presentation. Without going too far into the specifics, I chose early American children's education as my subject. I found old text books, mostly primers for science and religion in the W&M rare books collection. I went to The DeWitt Wallace museum and found an exhibit on early American children's toys. Then I went to the first Storytelling Festival in Williamsburg where I met a very, very dear friend (I will be grateful to this professor forever for leading me to a place that would inspire this precious friendship). For my final project, I created a "Commonplace Book," a early modern European tradition that came over on the boat, to display my findings from these adventures. Dr. Long not only led me to a beautiful friendship, he made research and field work exciting. By encouraging us to find a topic we could care about, I was hungry for more information... not so much for the grade, but to know things...
The list goes on and on... I've just been remarkably lucky. At W&M, I had a number of professors who expected his or her students to contribute to the general knowledge of the class just as a professor is subject to such a presumption. I have been asked not just for above average work, but to be myself. To use my own brain. I know a number of people have been traumatized by teachers abusing students and causing them to beileve they are stupid, uninteresting, and without hope. I had been well-trained before encoutering any such high and mighty tyrannts and was prepared to think about the situation before allowing those rare bad experiences to define me. I am grateful for the time I spent in school...
I guess I was lucky. I can think of only one teacher who did me any educational harm. Only one teacher actively stifled my creativity, my self-confidence. So, since there's only one scratch on my record, I'd rather not waste my energy complaining. My school days are among my favorite memories. I used to dread summer... it took me away from my books, new ideas, and inspiring instructors...
When I was in first grade, my mother taught in the section of my elementary school designed for children with physical disabilities. She used to bring me to school with her, rather early in the morning, before any of the other kids arrived. This gave me a chance to get to know some of the other teachers... one in particular, Mr. Patrick, who was an artist of sorts. He encouraged all of my potential talents. We would talk in the mornings or after school, and he would ask me what was on my mind. Whatever I told him, he would offer me little art projects to guide me through my feelings. He told me to write poems, sing and compose songs, create plays and skits, etc... and his expectations were only that I did these things. I'd show him my work after completing one of his assignments, and he never criticized me. Sometimes he would help me elaborate on a theme or derive even more stories and poems from originals, but he never voiced dislike for what I created. All he cared was that I become an artist.
In second grade, my teacher was asked to teach a rap about drugs to her class. We were supposed to perform this song in front of the entire school for some special event. During the first practice, she heard my voice over the muttering of bored students (I had been in acting classes outside of school for three years by this point in time). She singled me out, and when the performance day finally arrived, I performed the rap by myself with the rest of the class reciting the chorus in between verses. I'm only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still know most of that rap...
In fourth grade, I met a woman that I would wish for sometime were my step-mother (my own step-mother was not terribly fond of me). Ms. Babcock was beautiful, smart, and feisty. She treated us with the same familiarity she would her own children. She encouraged thoughtful answers... meaning we learned to close the book and speak for ourselves. If you read it, then you knew it. Use your own words. One day, and I can't remember what set her off, she went on this long tangent... she went around the room and told the entire class what she thought of every single one of us. Some of us were lazy, some of us were funny, some of us needed to get over ourselves. I was a little nervous, naturally, when she finally came to me. "Now you all know I love her," she said pointing to me, and moved on. She was one of the first people in my life to make me feel significant, special to someone. Later that year, our teacher was in an accident major enough that we were assigned a temporary, regular substitute. While this stand-in teacher was very kind, and became my first pen pal, I was devastated to have to get through about three months of fourth grade without Ms. Babcock.
Something inside me woke up in sixth grade... and that is all due to my homeroom teacher. She was in charge of our English lessons and assigned us quite a bit of creative writing. When Author Day was around the corner, she wanted us to begin working on longer works of fiction (more than three pages... mine ended up close to 15). She insisted that we write an intriguing first line... something that popped out at the reader and made him or her want to read on. The day we presented these first lines, I was towards the back of the last row. I waited impatiently for my turn... waited through many indifferent, silly, or boring first lines. When she finally nodded at my desk, I screamed out my first line (I had created a mother reprimanding her child for drawing on the wall). My teacher didn't say a word. She crooked her finger and curled it as if to say, "Come here." I walked towards her desk with my paper. She pulled out a spare desk, put it at the front of the room, and then asked me to sit and read the rest of what I wrote. Each week after, I was asked to read aloud each new installment of my work. This teacher had put me in a position to have a following, a group of readers who wanted to hear more of my story. She gave me the responsibility to keep their attention with my writing. Soon, I had people asking me in the hallways between classes to tell them what was going to happen next. It was one of those very rare moments during the preteen experience when you feel smart and successful.
In high school, the most influential of my teachers was the one who would later "adopt me," in a manner of speaking. The first year I knew him, he gave me extra reports to do outside of class. These reports were not graded. He just decided I needed the extra challenge. We spent a great deal of time talking after school. During these talks, he would pull out everything I thought I knew from my head, clean it up, and shove it back in. He was really a life coach, someone who broke down my misconceptions and opened my eyes to the world as it is beyond the arrogance of adolescence. He taught me how to read people, how to tell by what they do, or don't do, the sort of person they could be... and in turn, how to deal with my findings. He taught me to stop hanging my heart on the mistakes made by my father. I could go on for pages and pages... but it would be trite to list his accomplishments when it comes to my personal education. You know how we all say about one person or another that we wouldn't be who we are without him or her? Aside from our parents and those who grew up with us, there is no purer example of a presence that shaped a soul than this man to me. That was not his job... to help me grow up... to do better than ask me to regurgitate facts onto a test sheet... but he did.
In college, I certainly encountered a number of different sorts of academics... one of the cleverest lessons I ever learned was during a Biology exam. Our professor passed out the test sheets, casually mentioned that we should read the instructions before beginning, and we were given one hour. I dove into test mode and carefully filled out my answers. I took up the entire hour to look over my exam which made me the last student to turn in my work. Seeing that everyone had left the room, my professor chuckled as he took my paper from me. "Did you read the instructions?" he asked me, smiling kindly. "Of course," I said, wondering suddenly if I actually had. "Read them again," he handed my paper back to me, "Right there at the top of the page." The instructions read something along the lines of: You will have one hour to complete the questions below. Please use pencil or pen, black or blue ink only. For an automatic passing grade, simply fill out your name, the date, and answer the very last question on this exam. Please, do your own work. I felt so silly... but it certainly made an impression on me. I won't say I always read out all the instructions on my exams after that, but I definitely paid closer attention to what it was each individual professor was actually asking of me.
I will admit that one of my favorite professors was that sort of "receptacle" teacher... my first philosophy professor. He stood at the front of the room, lectured, and his exams were based on his words and the readings. All we were expected to do was regurgitate twice per semester what he had said during class. However, he was very open to questions and was able to offer a single answer in a number of different ways in order to make the concept make sense to pretty much anyone. It was his ability to work unrehearsed with anything that was thrown to him that prepared me for less versatile "receptacle" teachers. His creativity inspired me to demand more from my proud academic lecturers and, if they were unable to deliver, I demanded more of myself. I would find another book or another expert that would clear my confusion, illuminate the possibilities.
As long as I live, I will be in debt to Dr. Long. He was the ideal professor, in my mind. He would offer guidelines within projects, but you had absolute freedom as to the presentation of the material as well as the subject matter. He was my American Literature professor and our grade was broken into four parts: a rare books project, a museum project, a performing arts project, and the final presentation. Without going too far into the specifics, I chose early American children's education as my subject. I found old text books, mostly primers for science and religion in the W&M rare books collection. I went to The DeWitt Wallace museum and found an exhibit on early American children's toys. Then I went to the first Storytelling Festival in Williamsburg where I met a very, very dear friend (I will be grateful to this professor forever for leading me to a place that would inspire this precious friendship). For my final project, I created a "Commonplace Book," a early modern European tradition that came over on the boat, to display my findings from these adventures. Dr. Long not only led me to a beautiful friendship, he made research and field work exciting. By encouraging us to find a topic we could care about, I was hungry for more information... not so much for the grade, but to know things...
The list goes on and on... I've just been remarkably lucky. At W&M, I had a number of professors who expected his or her students to contribute to the general knowledge of the class just as a professor is subject to such a presumption. I have been asked not just for above average work, but to be myself. To use my own brain. I know a number of people have been traumatized by teachers abusing students and causing them to beileve they are stupid, uninteresting, and without hope. I had been well-trained before encoutering any such high and mighty tyrannts and was prepared to think about the situation before allowing those rare bad experiences to define me. I am grateful for the time I spent in school...
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