Some
teachers saw something - A light? A fire? - in me I didn't see and
have never seen; some saw in me the capability to do great things: to
sit A-levels and withstand exam pressure (I disagreed. I knew I
wasn't capable then and proved it again years later), to specialise
in English Literature or Religious Education. Ding, ding! The battle
lines drawn between two teachers - one who always called me by my
surname thinking it was my Christian and which knowing she meant me I
always answered to, and one who was too forceful with her feminist
enthusiasm to have me as her student and who I knew I would only
disappoint if she was declared the winner. The conclusion was: I
disappointed both. I called the fight off and instead opted for a
vocational subject and multiple choice, which pleased my domestic
science teacher who had quietly sat in the background and observed.
So
I did have teachers that championed me; I just didn't share their
faith. And I still struggle to, to understand as well as to partake
of it. I like to learn but I've never been a fan of the classroom. I
don't want to contribute and I hate being forced to. I like to absorb
and to be left to it, and I absorb much better without that fear of
being singled out for a question to be put to or to in some way
publicise my comprehension of the topic. Dissection has always put me
off. And I've always worked more successfully on my own, entirely on
my own, in a room of my own with no other niggling distractions. I
excelled at homework, well, if it wasn't maths or science related,
but that all stood for nothing when put in a hall with rows and rows
of single desks and single chairs where we were to demonstrate our
knowledge under timed conditions.
I
aced some, in others I did okay, in one I barely passed, in spite of
all the extra mentoring and Rescue Remedy.
My
Maths teacher had tried his best and given up, and as for Science,
well, it was obvious I never had the aptitude for Physics or
Chemistry, though I did have a very patient teacher. My Biology
teacher - she of the raven-black hair and a hard exterior like a
boiled sweet – scared the hell out of me. She never softened
towards me, nor anyone else, and make correction after correction, in
spiky lettering, with a red ballpoint pen. I longed to have kind but
firm Mrs Jenkins and envied all those that had their lessons with
her. Jolly Miss Smith for History however made up for that hard luck.
Her love of history was catching. I was genuinely sad when she
retired and another teacher also by the name of Smith took over her
class. Younger and just as passionate – as most History teachers
seem to be – but with nothing of the previous Miss Smith's nature.
Yes,
I always found it difficult to part with favourite teachers, just as
much as I found it difficult to like others, although god knows I
tried. Ms Clark, a PE teacher, was particularly hard to like. She was
all masculine energy, with no soft edges anywhere and a bark like an
army officer's. And I'll never forget Mrs Bone, a primary school
teacher, who reminded me of Miss Trunchbull. You never knew where you
stood with her: was she going to be nice or horrid? As for Herr
Worth, he, in many ways, resembled Mr Bean: very likeable but comic.
Not
one teacher, in my experience, was head and shoulders above another.
I did the work, I put in the effort, as well as, at times, the tears
of frustration. A gold star, if I had one to give, would go to the
teachers' pantomime because hilarity, at their expense, was
guaranteed, scripted and unscripted.
Picture credit: The Teacher, 1933, Helene Schjerbeck (source: WikiArt)
Written January 2020.
