The Art of Teaching

When I was a little girl a teacher told me I was stupid.

Being a child, still discovering the world and trusting those older than me to guide and teach, I took what she said as truth. Shortly after this incident I had great disdain for school, specifically in reading. There was no point in me learning something I was too stupid to learn, after all.

By the fifth grade, though my parents did all in their power to help and cheer me along, I had no desire to study or be taught. They were my parents; of course they didn’t know I was stupid! They were completely bias to the situation.

Mr. Durrant is the one I have to thank for a turn around. To this day, I think of my fifth grade teacher as a man of great devotion. He never gave up on me, and certainly never let me give up on myself.

A lot of recess that year was spent in doors at my desk, Mr. Durrant by my side, helping me to read. I never appreciated it back then because, heck, I was ten and wanted to be out on the jungle gym, but now I am filled with vast amount gratitude.

My sixth grade year started fresh and wonderful. Not only did I love to read, and now read at a seventh (almost eighth) grade level, but I had taken a deep interest in writing. One day my teacher asked what I wished to be when I grew up. When I told her I wished to be a writer, she said, “No dear. That will never happen. Focus on something else.”

Dreams stopped after that, and writing was shelved. I focused on something else.

Finally, my Junior year of high school came. A lot of time had passed. I quietly wrote poems and short stories and essays, but never shared them beyond a friend or two, and managed to turn in most English writing assignments dreadfully late, knowing the teacher would pass it to an aid and never read it themselves.

One day during my English literature class, Mr. Snell passed out paper and number two pencils and with a funny smile said, “Okay. It’s kind of like a pop quiz to see what you know about writing. I’m a writer, and I like to read other people’s writing. You have ten minutes to write about anything. Do it.”

He had a reputation for being a spunky, crazy sort of guy, and I agreed with it fully. This was English literature, not writing! Still, I jotted down something or other during those ten minutes.

Mr. Snell walked around, poking his head over the top of our desks, reading what we were writing with nods and “hums” and “interesting” and “hmmm”. When he came to my desk, I turned red. When the man pulled my paper out from underneath my pencil and called the class to attention, I turned absolutely scarlet.

“This,” he said, “is what I’m talking about people.”

And then Mr. Snell read whatever it was I scribble to the entire class.

I was humiliated.

After class, he gave me back my paper and said, “Mckenzie, you do realize what a talent you have? Don’t give up, kiddo.”

I was gratified.

The next year I even took two creative writing classes, and I never felt so happy when my teacher informed me that I was the best student she ever had in the course. It was humbling. It was a realization that maybe all my silly jots and squiggles could one day be something.

I look back on all of this with wonder and awe. The influence of an educator is great, while the influence of a real teacher is priceless.