Schools Out Forever
Jan. 21st, 2019 05:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Well we got no choice
All the girls and boys
Making all that noise
‘Cause they found new toys
Well we can’t salute you, can’t find a flag
If that don’t suit you, that’s a drag
School’s out for summer
Schools out forever
School’s been blown to pieces.
(School’s Out: Alice Cooper & Michael Bruce – 1986)
In a former life, I was a classroom teacher. I don’t think about it often, but periodically scenes or sensations intrude on my thoughts when I see a picture or an object from that past life – a student composition book, an American History text, or an old-fashioned student desk. Seeing those objects often awaken ancient images and memories of former students and long ago events. Bizarre dreams are the most persistent reminder of the hold that teaching still has on me. I sometimes awaken from disturbing kaleidoscopic dreams of undisciplined students and teenagers not following my simplest directions. It really makes no sense that these illogical nightmares still haunt me, given the fact that of my entire 35-year career in education, I spent only the first 7 in the classroom as a teacher. The rest of my career was spent as an out-of-class coordinator, teacher advisor, dean, assistant principal, and principal. Yet I rarely have disturbing or nightmarish “principal” dreams. I wistfully suspect that these nonsensical, classroom dreams are the result of a high school student’s secret curse, called down on me for some arbitrary and capricious action I took against him or her, or for a thoughtless and hurtful sarcastic remark I made. Strangely, I probably have the fondest and clearest memories of my first two years of teaching, when I started my career as a high school teacher at my alma mater, St. Bernard High School, in January of 1972.
I had just been discharged from the Air Force after the death of my father, and I was looking for a full time job before settling on a career. It was only by chance when I learned that an old high school and college friend, Kathy Sigafoos, was teaching at St. Bernard that I went to visit her there. While catching up on events since college I discovered that she was leaving her position as a history teacher to go on childcare leave, and she encouraged me to apply. Until that moment I hadn’t really considered the idea of teaching as a job. I was still toying with the possibility of applying to a law school or graduate school, but the prospect of teaching intrigued me. It sounded much more appealing than returning to the job I held as a college student of burglar alarm technician for ADT Alarm Systems. Teaching was a respected “coat and tie” profession that offered the patina of maturity and adulthood, and it sounded “easy”. What could be simpler than teaching a group of high school teenagers, I thought naively. Even though I had never taught before, I wasn’t intimidated at the prospect. I had experienced so many incredibly boring teachers in high school, that I was convinced I could do a better job. I still shiver at the arrogance of my youth.
Looking back now, I’m amazed that I was hired in the first place – especially since learning of the apprehensions of the History Department Chairperson, Sister Marilyn Therese Rudy, who interviewed me for the job. Her preference, as she told me many years later, was to hire a more qualified and experienced teacher, but was overruled by the Principal at that time, Father Larry Dunphy. I don’t know what he saw in the wet-nosed college graduate, who tried so hard to sound confident and able in his ability to teach during the interview, but he took a chance on me, and Sister Marilyn made the best of it, and me. She provided constant, nurturing mentorship and guidance throughout my two years apprenticeship, and paired me up with a more talented and experienced history teacher in the department, Jerry Lenhard (and she would ultimately introduce me to my future wife, Kathleen). Yet, when I think back on those first trying years of teaching, it strikes me that I learned just as much from a handful of bright, yet difficult, students as from the wise mentors who looked out for me. Four students stand out still in my memory, each one providing me with lessons that I never forgot during all my years of teaching and supervising other teachers and schools. I even remember their names – Mike Miller, Astor Marchesini, Pam Kennedy, and Tom Villenueve.
I suppose I was lucky that my first exposure to teaching began in the Spring Semester of 1972, because it gave me five short months in which to make my first-year mistakes in learning how to teach and manage students, and then a summer to recover and improve. The first shock I had was dealing with failure and still coming back the next day to fail again. Teaching strategies failed, lessons failed, and I failed at getting students to respond the way I wanted them to. I arrogantly thought teaching would be easy – simply a matter of staying ahead of the students, and lecturing about what they read. I also wanted students to trust and like me, but believed that all I had to do to win them over was to show up, because certainly my humor, charm, and intelligence would be enough. Effective teaching doesn’t work that way, and all these false assumptions led to continuous failures that first semester.
Students are masters of passive aggression. If they don’t trust the teacher, or buy the reasons for doing or learning something, they will stubbornly and subtly resist – but rarely overtly or defiantly. They wanted a good grade, but they also wanted to make a point. What I did not realize for a long time was that many of the brightest students in my classes resented the fact that I had replaced a popular teacher they liked and respected. It was as if they held me personally responsible for her pregnancy and childcare leave, and weren’t readily going to give me a break until I measured up. Two students in one of my U.S. History classes particularly stood out. Mike Miller was an intelligent, talkative, fresh-faced junior whose smiling face hid a snarky sense of humor that seemed to constantly popup in my class. I couldn’t tell if he was telling a joke or making fun of me with many of his remarks, and I always had a sense that he was judging me as a teacher. Astor Marchesini, on the other hand, was a quiet student, whose unruly curly hair gave him an air of sullen genius. Astor rarely spoke or volunteered information in class, except for a caustic statement here and there that teetered between sarcasm and rudeness. Over the course of the semester, I stayed one or two chapters ahead of the students and never had a serious confrontation until covering the Stock Market Crash of 1929. While struggling one day with a student’s question about the stock market, Astor loudly proclaimed that my answer was wrong. There was instant silence in the classroom as all heads turned to watch my reaction. It was a pivotal moment because Astor was challenging my knowledge in front of everyone, and only I knew that he was correct. Instead of admitting my inability to answer the question, I had guessed. I don’t know what guided me at that moment, but instead of feeling threatened or insulted by this teenager, I asked him, “Can you explain it?”
“Yes” he replied smugly, sitting back in his desk.
“Then come up here and explain it for us”, I urged, offering him the chalk in my hand. He looked around for a moment, and then sheepishly came up to the front of the class. Astor took the proffered chalk and did a great job. He clarified stocks, margins, and brokers, and their interconnectedness better than I ever could. That moment was illuminating for me on three levels: First, by giving Astor a chance to speak, he found his voice and became an active and constructive participant in all future class discussions; Second, it was foolish to bluff when I didn’t know the answer to a student’s question; and Third, there were a lot of smart students in my classes, and it was better to have them working with me than against me.
My second year at St. Bernard was a whole new experience. My concept of teaching had expanded from lecturing to learning. I wanted students to know and be able demonstrate their understanding of history by posing and discussing questions, forming answers, and defending their conclusions (especially in writing). I wanted students involved and participating in what was being learned. I was more confident in my lesson planning, learning strategies, and classroom management skills, and I believed I now had the trust and confidence of my students. However, the big surprise of my second year of teaching was having Mike Miller, accompanied by his constant companion Andy Gavel, stroll into my class on the first day of school to ask if he could be my teaching assistant (TA). I was dumbfounded. Granted, Mike was bright and clever enough for the job, but this was the annoying, smart-alecky kid who had been a pain in the ass the year before. I can’t explain why, but for some odd reason I was flattered by the request and I said yes. Mike proved to be a funny and capable TA, and we spent a lot of enjoyable time talking, laughing, and discussing all kinds of things during that semester. I couldn’t name what had changed in our relationship from the year before, until his grade counselor, Sister Carol Krommer, mentioned a remark he made. Mike confided to her that he was very impressed by how much I had improved as a teacher from the year before. I remember smiling at this bit of information, and replying that Mike was an amazingly observant student.
My second year of teaching wasn’t all “dew drops on roses, and whiskers on kittens”. Some lessons didn’t work out, and some students didn’t respond the way I wanted them to. On particularly frustrating days, I would spend an hour after school rearranging the desks and lining them up in precise order. After doing this on many occasions, I came to realize that it was therapy because it gave me a temporary sense of order and control. One boy’s behavior in particular would precipitate many of these sessions. His name was Tom Villeneuve. He was a capable student in a class of incredibly brilliant sophomores, but I couldn’t get him to buy in and perform. In fact, I believed his sullen and unresponsive attitude, and his side remarks to the students around him were undermining the whole class. Finally on one singularly exasperating day, I asked him to stay after class. When the other students had departed I sat down on the desk next to him and sighed. I really didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Tom, why do you hate me so much?” I asked.
He stared at me in a stunned bewilderment for a minute, and then replied, “I thought you hated me?”
That declaration solved the puzzle and gave me a clue to the immense power and influence that teachers and their words have on children. Something I said or did in class had given Tom the impression and belief that I hated him. Neither of us could pinpoint when or what I had said or done, but it was enough to undermine the learning process and color his attitude toward the subject matter and me. We talked for a long time, and I finally managed to get him to laugh about our misconceptions of each other. He left the classroom smiling, and our relationship changed after that. It was as if we now shared a secret understanding of each other and were now friends. Tom’s behavior and attitude changed after that talk. He participated in class discussions, and I felt confident in calling on him more and more to elicit his ideas and opinions. I savored the success of our conference for a long time, but I hadn’t really digested the full impact of the power of a teacher’s actions and words on students. That came in another class, with another student.
I was teaching one elective history class to a large group of boisterous seniors. They were a likeable, raucous bunch that had figured out very quickly how to get on my good side, and get me off the instructional topic. At the beginning of many classes they would start asking questions about my day, my weekend activities, and my friends. I had gone to the same high school with many of their older siblings, so they felt free to ask personal questions and provide updates on their elder brothers and sisters. One student in particular excelled at these skills. Pam Kennedy was a tall, animated, dark haired student, with a sly, mischievous smile. I could never really tell what was behind her questions, but she was an excellent student, and despite her annoying curiosity, I gave her a lot of leeway in that class. One afternoon, when the class was especially boisterous and off task, Pam became upset with a boy sitting behind her. She bolted out of her desk, and while commanding the attention of the entire class, angrily unleashed a loud and animated scolding at the cowering boy. Warranted or not, I lost my temper at this violent interruption, and yelled at her.
“Miss Kennedy,” I shouted. “Sit down!”
“But he,” she began, turning towards me to explain herself.
“I don’t care!” I said, impatiently. “Sit down. You’re acting like a blubbering cow that’s been branded”.
The class burst into laughter at my sarcastic remark, and Pam sat down, her face blushing a deep crimson. She didn’t say a word for the rest of the hour. Later, when I thought about my anger, my remark, and the embarrassed look on Pam’s face, the worse I felt. I recalled my conversation with Tom and the devastating effects that a teacher’s words can have, and I was ashamed. It was the first time I knew that I had acted in an uncalled and unprofessional manner, and I needed to correct it. The next day, at the beginning of class, I asked for all the students’ complete attention and told them that what I had said to Miss Kennedy was rude, unprofessional, and unacceptable. I turned to her, and said, “Miss Kennedy, I’m deeply sorry for what I said and called you yesterday. I hope you can accept my apology?”
“I do, Mr. Delgado,” she replied. “Thank you.”
Gratefully, any hurt feelings from my remarks were soon forgotten, and Miss Kennedy retained her curiosity and resumed her questioning for the rest of the year.
It’s been over 35 years since those first semesters of teaching, but I remember them fondly, and I’ve never forgotten the lessons I learned, and the actions I regretted. In many ways, those first students made me a better person and teacher, when I took the time to listen and consider what they said. I’ve bumped into them on occasion, now much older of course, and keep in contact with a few through Facebook. However, I dismiss the fanciful notion that teachers’ have a lasting, Mr. Chips-like impact on the lives of their students. I suppose students remember some teachers fondly, but choose to forget many, many more. Curiously, some of the worst teachers I had, I remember best. I hope I was not in that number to the students I taught.
All the girls and boys
Making all that noise
‘Cause they found new toys
Well we can’t salute you, can’t find a flag
If that don’t suit you, that’s a drag
School’s out for summer
Schools out forever
School’s been blown to pieces.
(School’s Out: Alice Cooper & Michael Bruce – 1986)
In a former life, I was a classroom teacher. I don’t think about it often, but periodically scenes or sensations intrude on my thoughts when I see a picture or an object from that past life – a student composition book, an American History text, or an old-fashioned student desk. Seeing those objects often awaken ancient images and memories of former students and long ago events. Bizarre dreams are the most persistent reminder of the hold that teaching still has on me. I sometimes awaken from disturbing kaleidoscopic dreams of undisciplined students and teenagers not following my simplest directions. It really makes no sense that these illogical nightmares still haunt me, given the fact that of my entire 35-year career in education, I spent only the first 7 in the classroom as a teacher. The rest of my career was spent as an out-of-class coordinator, teacher advisor, dean, assistant principal, and principal. Yet I rarely have disturbing or nightmarish “principal” dreams. I wistfully suspect that these nonsensical, classroom dreams are the result of a high school student’s secret curse, called down on me for some arbitrary and capricious action I took against him or her, or for a thoughtless and hurtful sarcastic remark I made. Strangely, I probably have the fondest and clearest memories of my first two years of teaching, when I started my career as a high school teacher at my alma mater, St. Bernard High School, in January of 1972.
I had just been discharged from the Air Force after the death of my father, and I was looking for a full time job before settling on a career. It was only by chance when I learned that an old high school and college friend, Kathy Sigafoos, was teaching at St. Bernard that I went to visit her there. While catching up on events since college I discovered that she was leaving her position as a history teacher to go on childcare leave, and she encouraged me to apply. Until that moment I hadn’t really considered the idea of teaching as a job. I was still toying with the possibility of applying to a law school or graduate school, but the prospect of teaching intrigued me. It sounded much more appealing than returning to the job I held as a college student of burglar alarm technician for ADT Alarm Systems. Teaching was a respected “coat and tie” profession that offered the patina of maturity and adulthood, and it sounded “easy”. What could be simpler than teaching a group of high school teenagers, I thought naively. Even though I had never taught before, I wasn’t intimidated at the prospect. I had experienced so many incredibly boring teachers in high school, that I was convinced I could do a better job. I still shiver at the arrogance of my youth.
Looking back now, I’m amazed that I was hired in the first place – especially since learning of the apprehensions of the History Department Chairperson, Sister Marilyn Therese Rudy, who interviewed me for the job. Her preference, as she told me many years later, was to hire a more qualified and experienced teacher, but was overruled by the Principal at that time, Father Larry Dunphy. I don’t know what he saw in the wet-nosed college graduate, who tried so hard to sound confident and able in his ability to teach during the interview, but he took a chance on me, and Sister Marilyn made the best of it, and me. She provided constant, nurturing mentorship and guidance throughout my two years apprenticeship, and paired me up with a more talented and experienced history teacher in the department, Jerry Lenhard (and she would ultimately introduce me to my future wife, Kathleen). Yet, when I think back on those first trying years of teaching, it strikes me that I learned just as much from a handful of bright, yet difficult, students as from the wise mentors who looked out for me. Four students stand out still in my memory, each one providing me with lessons that I never forgot during all my years of teaching and supervising other teachers and schools. I even remember their names – Mike Miller, Astor Marchesini, Pam Kennedy, and Tom Villenueve.
I suppose I was lucky that my first exposure to teaching began in the Spring Semester of 1972, because it gave me five short months in which to make my first-year mistakes in learning how to teach and manage students, and then a summer to recover and improve. The first shock I had was dealing with failure and still coming back the next day to fail again. Teaching strategies failed, lessons failed, and I failed at getting students to respond the way I wanted them to. I arrogantly thought teaching would be easy – simply a matter of staying ahead of the students, and lecturing about what they read. I also wanted students to trust and like me, but believed that all I had to do to win them over was to show up, because certainly my humor, charm, and intelligence would be enough. Effective teaching doesn’t work that way, and all these false assumptions led to continuous failures that first semester.
Students are masters of passive aggression. If they don’t trust the teacher, or buy the reasons for doing or learning something, they will stubbornly and subtly resist – but rarely overtly or defiantly. They wanted a good grade, but they also wanted to make a point. What I did not realize for a long time was that many of the brightest students in my classes resented the fact that I had replaced a popular teacher they liked and respected. It was as if they held me personally responsible for her pregnancy and childcare leave, and weren’t readily going to give me a break until I measured up. Two students in one of my U.S. History classes particularly stood out. Mike Miller was an intelligent, talkative, fresh-faced junior whose smiling face hid a snarky sense of humor that seemed to constantly popup in my class. I couldn’t tell if he was telling a joke or making fun of me with many of his remarks, and I always had a sense that he was judging me as a teacher. Astor Marchesini, on the other hand, was a quiet student, whose unruly curly hair gave him an air of sullen genius. Astor rarely spoke or volunteered information in class, except for a caustic statement here and there that teetered between sarcasm and rudeness. Over the course of the semester, I stayed one or two chapters ahead of the students and never had a serious confrontation until covering the Stock Market Crash of 1929. While struggling one day with a student’s question about the stock market, Astor loudly proclaimed that my answer was wrong. There was instant silence in the classroom as all heads turned to watch my reaction. It was a pivotal moment because Astor was challenging my knowledge in front of everyone, and only I knew that he was correct. Instead of admitting my inability to answer the question, I had guessed. I don’t know what guided me at that moment, but instead of feeling threatened or insulted by this teenager, I asked him, “Can you explain it?”
“Yes” he replied smugly, sitting back in his desk.
“Then come up here and explain it for us”, I urged, offering him the chalk in my hand. He looked around for a moment, and then sheepishly came up to the front of the class. Astor took the proffered chalk and did a great job. He clarified stocks, margins, and brokers, and their interconnectedness better than I ever could. That moment was illuminating for me on three levels: First, by giving Astor a chance to speak, he found his voice and became an active and constructive participant in all future class discussions; Second, it was foolish to bluff when I didn’t know the answer to a student’s question; and Third, there were a lot of smart students in my classes, and it was better to have them working with me than against me.
My second year at St. Bernard was a whole new experience. My concept of teaching had expanded from lecturing to learning. I wanted students to know and be able demonstrate their understanding of history by posing and discussing questions, forming answers, and defending their conclusions (especially in writing). I wanted students involved and participating in what was being learned. I was more confident in my lesson planning, learning strategies, and classroom management skills, and I believed I now had the trust and confidence of my students. However, the big surprise of my second year of teaching was having Mike Miller, accompanied by his constant companion Andy Gavel, stroll into my class on the first day of school to ask if he could be my teaching assistant (TA). I was dumbfounded. Granted, Mike was bright and clever enough for the job, but this was the annoying, smart-alecky kid who had been a pain in the ass the year before. I can’t explain why, but for some odd reason I was flattered by the request and I said yes. Mike proved to be a funny and capable TA, and we spent a lot of enjoyable time talking, laughing, and discussing all kinds of things during that semester. I couldn’t name what had changed in our relationship from the year before, until his grade counselor, Sister Carol Krommer, mentioned a remark he made. Mike confided to her that he was very impressed by how much I had improved as a teacher from the year before. I remember smiling at this bit of information, and replying that Mike was an amazingly observant student.
My second year of teaching wasn’t all “dew drops on roses, and whiskers on kittens”. Some lessons didn’t work out, and some students didn’t respond the way I wanted them to. On particularly frustrating days, I would spend an hour after school rearranging the desks and lining them up in precise order. After doing this on many occasions, I came to realize that it was therapy because it gave me a temporary sense of order and control. One boy’s behavior in particular would precipitate many of these sessions. His name was Tom Villeneuve. He was a capable student in a class of incredibly brilliant sophomores, but I couldn’t get him to buy in and perform. In fact, I believed his sullen and unresponsive attitude, and his side remarks to the students around him were undermining the whole class. Finally on one singularly exasperating day, I asked him to stay after class. When the other students had departed I sat down on the desk next to him and sighed. I really didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Tom, why do you hate me so much?” I asked.
He stared at me in a stunned bewilderment for a minute, and then replied, “I thought you hated me?”
That declaration solved the puzzle and gave me a clue to the immense power and influence that teachers and their words have on children. Something I said or did in class had given Tom the impression and belief that I hated him. Neither of us could pinpoint when or what I had said or done, but it was enough to undermine the learning process and color his attitude toward the subject matter and me. We talked for a long time, and I finally managed to get him to laugh about our misconceptions of each other. He left the classroom smiling, and our relationship changed after that. It was as if we now shared a secret understanding of each other and were now friends. Tom’s behavior and attitude changed after that talk. He participated in class discussions, and I felt confident in calling on him more and more to elicit his ideas and opinions. I savored the success of our conference for a long time, but I hadn’t really digested the full impact of the power of a teacher’s actions and words on students. That came in another class, with another student.
I was teaching one elective history class to a large group of boisterous seniors. They were a likeable, raucous bunch that had figured out very quickly how to get on my good side, and get me off the instructional topic. At the beginning of many classes they would start asking questions about my day, my weekend activities, and my friends. I had gone to the same high school with many of their older siblings, so they felt free to ask personal questions and provide updates on their elder brothers and sisters. One student in particular excelled at these skills. Pam Kennedy was a tall, animated, dark haired student, with a sly, mischievous smile. I could never really tell what was behind her questions, but she was an excellent student, and despite her annoying curiosity, I gave her a lot of leeway in that class. One afternoon, when the class was especially boisterous and off task, Pam became upset with a boy sitting behind her. She bolted out of her desk, and while commanding the attention of the entire class, angrily unleashed a loud and animated scolding at the cowering boy. Warranted or not, I lost my temper at this violent interruption, and yelled at her.
“Miss Kennedy,” I shouted. “Sit down!”
“But he,” she began, turning towards me to explain herself.
“I don’t care!” I said, impatiently. “Sit down. You’re acting like a blubbering cow that’s been branded”.
The class burst into laughter at my sarcastic remark, and Pam sat down, her face blushing a deep crimson. She didn’t say a word for the rest of the hour. Later, when I thought about my anger, my remark, and the embarrassed look on Pam’s face, the worse I felt. I recalled my conversation with Tom and the devastating effects that a teacher’s words can have, and I was ashamed. It was the first time I knew that I had acted in an uncalled and unprofessional manner, and I needed to correct it. The next day, at the beginning of class, I asked for all the students’ complete attention and told them that what I had said to Miss Kennedy was rude, unprofessional, and unacceptable. I turned to her, and said, “Miss Kennedy, I’m deeply sorry for what I said and called you yesterday. I hope you can accept my apology?”
“I do, Mr. Delgado,” she replied. “Thank you.”
Gratefully, any hurt feelings from my remarks were soon forgotten, and Miss Kennedy retained her curiosity and resumed her questioning for the rest of the year.
It’s been over 35 years since those first semesters of teaching, but I remember them fondly, and I’ve never forgotten the lessons I learned, and the actions I regretted. In many ways, those first students made me a better person and teacher, when I took the time to listen and consider what they said. I’ve bumped into them on occasion, now much older of course, and keep in contact with a few through Facebook. However, I dismiss the fanciful notion that teachers’ have a lasting, Mr. Chips-like impact on the lives of their students. I suppose students remember some teachers fondly, but choose to forget many, many more. Curiously, some of the worst teachers I had, I remember best. I hope I was not in that number to the students I taught.
Teaching!
Date: 2019-01-22 07:54 am (UTC)TRH
Re: Teaching!
Date: 2019-01-22 10:31 pm (UTC)Take care, my friend.
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