A Dying Breed of Teacher
It has been such a long time. I’m not referring to how long it has been since I’ve last seen my seventh grade teacher; I’m speaking of how long it has taken for her to hear this: Thank you.
I don’t often credit my fascination of science with any one inspiration, but if I had to sum it up, it was her. Not the classes, the lectures, the lessons, which, I admit, have become just scattered pieces of knowledge here and there. I realize now that I learned more in that informal half hour before school and the self-explored learning when study hall dragged by. That’s what I remember. That’s where I found my inspiration, my ambition, my interest in science of many different forms and complexities. And, I believe, that’s what set me on the right track for high school, and much, much more.
These days, with the required hours of coursework and job shadowing, anyone can become a schoolteacher; but it amazes me how few of those graduates walking across university stages will truly be able to teach. The entire institution has metamorphosized into a long column of dispassionately analytic lecture halls and faceless professors hiding behind digital screens. Cold. Clinical. Uninviting. Students shoulder the burden of being educator, mentor, disciplinarian, tutor, and coach. Apathetic pedagogues force tactical information down our throats and expect students to regurgitate the unvaried answers in whole preciseness. Roger Lewin’s philosophy is eloquently blunt; “Too often we give our children answers to remember rather than problems to solve.” The rudimentary ideal of teaching has become immaterial. What happened to curiosity?
Curiosity is not something a drill sergeant of a professor can pound into your head. No number of detentions and suspensions can rouse ambition where it does not exist. It takes more than memorization to master a subject. Students are more than test score and teachers should be more than an email address.
My seventh grade teacher is different. In her classroom, school becomes a place to ask questions rather than answer them. World Geography is a survivor's trek across the Australian outback. Genetics is the study of multiple generations of marshmallow monsters. The Achilles tendon is a blob on PlayDoe on Barbie's leg, and students put a scribe's work to shame with their hand carvings of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs in bars of soap. The world seems so much closer, teeming with so many possibilities. Her teaching goes beyond the rigid structure of syllabi and encompasses an empathetic approach to understand her student's weaknesses, limitations, and work loads.
I'm grateful to have been her student for what little time I could. I owe her so much, but all good things must come to an end. Jane Busch was offered an upgraded teaching position at another institution and soon was moving on to bigger and better things than our small Catholic middle school. I knew what I had lost before she walked out that door.
I didn't cry at funerals or wakes. I didn’t cry at eighth grade graduation when I left behind the only school I had ever known to face the horrors of public school. I didn't cry when my friends graduated and left me behind for another whole year of high school. I didn't cry in My Sister's Keeper or Letters to God. The last day of school is usually cause for celebration among students for the long-awaited apprehension of summer, but I could not hold back the tears that streamed down my face as I hopped in the car.
I was leaving her classroom forever; helplessly thrown into the merciless world of pseudo professors to fend for myself. Although my seventh grade teacher has since returned to my old school, those days, like the days of line leaders and nap times, are gone, but the enlightenment I found in that classroom will stay with me forever. No mind should be left fumbling in the dark. To this day, my seventh grade teacher doesn’t employ to teach a subject, but to kindle curiosities that drive a student's learning ambition. It's a dying breed of teacher.
I don’t often credit my fascination of science with any one inspiration, but if I had to sum it up, it was her. Not the classes, the lectures, the lessons, which, I admit, have become just scattered pieces of knowledge here and there. I realize now that I learned more in that informal half hour before school and the self-explored learning when study hall dragged by. That’s what I remember. That’s where I found my inspiration, my ambition, my interest in science of many different forms and complexities. And, I believe, that’s what set me on the right track for high school, and much, much more.
These days, with the required hours of coursework and job shadowing, anyone can become a schoolteacher; but it amazes me how few of those graduates walking across university stages will truly be able to teach. The entire institution has metamorphosized into a long column of dispassionately analytic lecture halls and faceless professors hiding behind digital screens. Cold. Clinical. Uninviting. Students shoulder the burden of being educator, mentor, disciplinarian, tutor, and coach. Apathetic pedagogues force tactical information down our throats and expect students to regurgitate the unvaried answers in whole preciseness. Roger Lewin’s philosophy is eloquently blunt; “Too often we give our children answers to remember rather than problems to solve.” The rudimentary ideal of teaching has become immaterial. What happened to curiosity?
Curiosity is not something a drill sergeant of a professor can pound into your head. No number of detentions and suspensions can rouse ambition where it does not exist. It takes more than memorization to master a subject. Students are more than test score and teachers should be more than an email address.
My seventh grade teacher is different. In her classroom, school becomes a place to ask questions rather than answer them. World Geography is a survivor's trek across the Australian outback. Genetics is the study of multiple generations of marshmallow monsters. The Achilles tendon is a blob on PlayDoe on Barbie's leg, and students put a scribe's work to shame with their hand carvings of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs in bars of soap. The world seems so much closer, teeming with so many possibilities. Her teaching goes beyond the rigid structure of syllabi and encompasses an empathetic approach to understand her student's weaknesses, limitations, and work loads.
I'm grateful to have been her student for what little time I could. I owe her so much, but all good things must come to an end. Jane Busch was offered an upgraded teaching position at another institution and soon was moving on to bigger and better things than our small Catholic middle school. I knew what I had lost before she walked out that door.
I didn't cry at funerals or wakes. I didn’t cry at eighth grade graduation when I left behind the only school I had ever known to face the horrors of public school. I didn't cry when my friends graduated and left me behind for another whole year of high school. I didn't cry in My Sister's Keeper or Letters to God. The last day of school is usually cause for celebration among students for the long-awaited apprehension of summer, but I could not hold back the tears that streamed down my face as I hopped in the car.
I was leaving her classroom forever; helplessly thrown into the merciless world of pseudo professors to fend for myself. Although my seventh grade teacher has since returned to my old school, those days, like the days of line leaders and nap times, are gone, but the enlightenment I found in that classroom will stay with me forever. No mind should be left fumbling in the dark. To this day, my seventh grade teacher doesn’t employ to teach a subject, but to kindle curiosities that drive a student's learning ambition. It's a dying breed of teacher.