Writer! How does one describe oneself as a writer? Describing one’s career as a consultant, as a professor, as a gardener are straight forward tasks based on credentials and interests. But writer! Now that presents a challenge.
I have been privileged in my life to study with some great writers. Edward Albee, Harry Crews, Ed McCourt. They told me I was a writer. I am still trying to believe them.
You see, writer conjures images of Tennessee Williams, Carson McCullers, D.H. Lawrence.
How could I be so bold as to say, “I am a writer!”?
I love to tell stories. I tell pretty good ones. I write them down. And I make enough money doing it to buy the property that enabled me to include the section, “gardener”.
So, in that sense, I am a writer - down - of - stories. I can do that. And I can teach others to do it, too.
The writing down of stories isn’t a career. It isn’t a hobby or a habit. It is a thing you must do if the stories are in you. You must get them out, or like demons they haunt you.
But it is an exquisite haunting. For as long as there are demons, there are more stories to tell.
I never wanted to be well-rounded, and I do not admire well-rounded
people nor their work. So far as I can see, nothing good in the world
has ever been done by well-rounded people. The good work is done
by people with jagged, broken edges, because those edges cut things
and leave an imprint, a design.
—Harry Crews
Educator
I’d never wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to do something important. I wanted to make a difference in the world. I studied, I earned scholarships, I worked hard. I was going to go into the sciences, work with researchers, find a cure for cancer, the disease that had killed both of my maternal grandparents in their fifties. I had been with them during their slow and painful dying. I was determined.
My mother always supported me. A nurse who gave up her job to take care of her mother and then her father, she worked long hours as a housekeeper in a hotel belonging to my uncle. We all lived there. Money to go to school was not something we had enough of. When I won a Governor’s General scholarship to go to university, this practical woman encouraged me to go to Teacher’s College. “You can always get a job as a teacher and work yourself through night school and summer school.”
Off I went to Saskatoon to take a one year course in how to be a teacher. Surely I could handle one year of it. Classes came and went each day. I wrote reports, read curriculum guides, I didn’t really register anything. I was buying time. Waiting for the time when I could do something worthwhile.
One requirement of Teacher’s College was to complete three weeks of practice teaching in a real classroom. The regular teacher would be there, telling you what to do, how to do it, and then give feedback to your supervisor. I couldn’t imagine anything worse.Horses, llamas, goats, dogs, chickens, ducks roamed the property. It became a sanctuary designed to sustain life.
The first day of my practicum, the classroom teacher phoned in sick. Very sick. Perhaps needed to go to the hospital. I would be alone with 36 twelve year-olds. I was told to follow her lesson plan book.
The first lesson of the day was to teach long division. Long division! I never could figure out how to do it. In my head, I turned the numbers into divisions of ten and then, with a little adding or subtracting, I figured it out.
By the time we were half way through the lesson, I was so confused I couldn’t even find the answers at the back of the book. I’d ask the students how many had that answer and if the majority put up their hands I’d say that was correct. I had no idea.
And then they married. Life renewed.
A very attentive kid with red hair and no freckles put up his hand. His arms were long and the sweater he wore barely reached his wrist. “Yes?” I nodded more than spoke aloud.And then they married. Life renewed.
You don’t know how to do this, do you?
Now what? How could I deny what was so obvious. “No, you’re right. I don’t. There was a silence in the room. Instinct kicked in. “But I’ll bet you do.” I smiled.
“Of course, I’m in grade seven.” He looked shocked at his own obvious insult. I could tell he hadn’t planned to be that rude. But now we were both stuck with it.
Country children back in the sixties were too polite to laugh. The class sat in silence, wide-eyed, watching, waiting for me to What? To lie? To yell? To tell the little red haired big mouth to sit down? To go to the principal’s office?
I did none of those things. Instead, I offered a solution. “Well, here’s the deal. You teach long division and I’ll teach you the things I know.”
It was the beginning of a relationship, a sharing, a commitment. I honored my students, valued what they knew. I shared the responsibility. We paid respectful attention to one another.
I left that practicum knowing I had found the most exciting, challenging, rewarding profession in the world. I also felt it was the most important. Not teaching curriculum. Teaching people to feel good about themselves, to welcome challenge, to take responsibility.
I have spent every working day of my professional life hell bent on teaching. Teaching high school, teaching in a school for the mentally challenged, teaching in a school for wayward girls, teaching in a university, teaching in a board room, teaching in a hotel full of film makers. And now, teaching through a computer screen.
I train, I learn, I teach, I am.
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