The Teacher

 I worked for thirty-eight years in education, first as a high school English teacher, then as a manager in various positions within a regional community college system. 

Have you noticed I haven’t used the word “educator”? For years, when someone referred to me as an educator, I felt like a fraud who eventually would be called out. I will explain what I mean by sharing what I have learned about teaching through teachers and students. This story follows an idea introduced early in the collection: seek opportunities to learn from people and experiences.

Before we start, can we take a moment? I promise this isn’t a test. Relax, close your eyes or keep them open. Your choice. Remember a teacher who has helped you move forward in your life. Few of us mature without help from others. After parents, teachers are the adults who probably spend the most time with us as kids. Because of the environment, their relationship with us differs from that of our parents. Let me tell you what life lessons I learned from a few of my teachers.

My elementary teachers were three gentle and kind nuns from the Congregation de Notre Dame (CND). They encouraged this capricious young boy to explore the world around him enthusiastically and delightfully.

My third-grade teacher continued the supportive method. When her father died suddenly in a workplace accident, she used it as a teaching opportunity with her young students. 

Mona returned to our class shortly after the funeral of her dad. She introduced the topic of death so we could understand and patiently allowed us to ask questions on a subject few of our parents could. Her gift to us was empathy. We loved her, and each returned the love in his / her childlike way.

Junior high students present unique challenges to teachers. They have a curiosity and desire to learn that may or may not align with the school curriculum. Hormones drive much of their thinking. The discovery that I was gay compounded my sexual transformation.

It was also when I morphed from a focused, diligent student to one who wanted peer approval above all else. I became the class clown. I was not a good fit for that role. 

One incident whispered about in the hallways for months after occurred in grade eight Math class. Mrs. Laney was the most feared teacher in our school. Her smile was rare and looked more like a scar when it appeared. She was an older widow who did not suffer fools well. I was sitting in the front seat, keen to show my clown side. Mrs. Laney was at the board. She bent down to tie her shoelace. Like the rest of the front-seat students, my attention was on the diversion, hoping it would last.

Just as she stood up, her bra came off, landing on the floor. Without missing a word, she turned to face the board and readjusted herself. Seizing the moment, I signaled to the other students. With lightning speed, 

Mrs. Laney whipped around, wardrobe intact and cuffed me in the back of the head, knocking me out of my seat. I climbed back to my desk, unhurt but humiliated. That ended my clown routine. 

With today’s code of teacher conduct, her actions would cause a stir. In the 1960s classroom, it was a helpful teaching and learning moment.

High school for this young man, struggling to understand his sexual identity, was a bland experience. At this point in my life, if I were to avoid a tormented existence in small-town New Brunswick, I would have to crawl into the closet and wait until I could get away. 

My experience was not unique; undoubtedly, my story would have been very different if I had come out to my family and community. But every disincentive was in place for me to consider that option, including social norms that were blatantly homophobic.

Most of my high school teachers failed to help move me, primarily because they were met by a young man locked in a world of depression. But some saw potential. 

René, a chain-smoking anglophone Quebecer, would roll up his sleeves at the start of history class. He would pace incessantly around the classroom with great conviction and dedication in every sentence. On those days when I was alert, I listened to his every word; other days, when I was too tired or hung over from loading boats at the local pier, he let me sleep. There was no judgment.

Paul, my grade ten English teacher, was tagged as gay. Paul showed up every day and did his best despite snide comments from a rarely disciplined bully who was a hockey player, which set him above the rest of us. 

I learned from Paul the courage to be yourself. But I threw the lesson away, afraid someone would discover I was gay. When I read of his death, I deeply regretted what I had lost in shutting him out.

Jim, the principal of my high school, called me to his office one day. I was in my first year of grade eleven, seriously depressed, and set to fail. He didn’t chastise me or bother with the cheer-up, better times ahead speech. We talked about mutually interesting topics, community and politics. He listened with interest to what I had to say. There was respect and a willingness to hear.

Despite my lackluster academic performance, I was accepted to university. Universities of the seventies were places to explore ideas and careers. I majored in psychology and was encouraged by my instructors to pursue the career, but later learned it could not be my profession. I was fascinated with people’s thinking. But I knew I would lose myself in helping others, leaving us both adrift.

As I neared the end of my undergraduate degree, I did what many do. I panicked. What job could I get with a Bachelor of Arts? I needed a specific skill set to be employed. Law or Education degrees were the following logical options. I knew more employed teachers than lawyers, and they seemed to like their work. It may have seemed like an impulsive decision. Still, forces are directing our lives well beyond our comprehension, as in my case. I spent the next two years in a Bachelor of Education program.

For the first week, I sat in Dr. Susan McNevan’s class, Elementary Education; I wanted out badly. She personified my hypermasculine image of an elementary school teacher, including her fawning, childlike voice. I spent the after-class discussions demeaning her teaching style to my friends and classmates. This quiet, non-assuming lady was jeopardizing my wafer-thin persona of masculinity. She silently removed each stone from the wall I was building to protect myself.

I filled out a course transfer request. A requirement of transferring is that a student meets with the instructor. 

At the appointed time, I knocked on her door, intending the meeting would be brief and direct. Two hours later, I left her office humbled by her ability to listen sincerely to this brash young man. She spoke of what she saw in me as a teacher, often commenting on my assignments and class discussions. Susan took me where I was, with no judgements. That evening, I tore up the transfer request in my dorm room.

Susan was also one of the few who looked behind the curtain to find an unhappy young man. She showed a unique empathy that I still find hard to describe. Eventually, she was the first adult I came out to. I studied and tried to emulate those qualities I saw in her: trust, empathy, respect, and humility. Almost a half-century later, I am proud to report that I am still a student. Thank you, Susan.

After graduation, Dad suggested I apply to teach in the local school district. Shortly, I received an invitation for an interview. The fact that the sole interviewer was the superintendent seemed peculiar. I had expected to meet with several persons who would quiz me on my teaching experience (none), other work experience (summer student), and educational philosophy (working on it). No, just me and the superintendent, who seemed more nervous than I was.

He emphasized the strong working relationship he had with my father. Dad had been a leader on the School Board for three decades. 

Several days later, he called and offered me a full-time position teaching at the regional high school. I casually accepted. The inability to see that I did not have the academic credentials or background to teach English escaped me. I was the poster child for the privileged white male, believing I deserved an award for just showing up. I soon learned I needed more than my father’s name to instruct a high school English class.

It’s time to fast forward again, a bit slower this time and after my first-year teaching. I will fill in a few pieces along the way. Classroom discipline, which often dominates today’s talk of education, was relatively easy for me. 

When I first wrote this paragraph, it was to show that I had incorporated the life lessons my teachers taught me over the years. It would have neatly wrapped up my story. But our lives are like rivers; they find their own paths, seldom direct. At this stage of my life, my persona seemed set. My first evaluation read, “Doug is an outgoing, enthusiastic and hardworking young man. He brings to teaching a no-nonsense approach to classroom management.” That was the outward image I presented. But internally, I had made little progress in accepting the young man hiding from himself.

I survived my first year of teaching. In some ways, I thrived by gradually learning to apply some of the characteristics of a good teacher I had been taught. As often has happened, the right people were there when I needed them.

Carl was the supervising instructor in my practice teaching. He was a unique individual, intelligent and an excellent mentor. Methodical in lesson planning and delivery, he was a teacher’s teacher. The students and their peers respected him. He had a Master’s degree in English and had been teaching for twenty-five years when we met. With his guidance, my practice teaching sessions proved rewarding for the students and me. I later learned he had recommended me for a full-time appointment.

On my first day with him as my Department Head, he offered to share his teaching materials and lessons until I got comfortable. I was stunned. As a novice, I was being given the holy grail! But Carl was no fool.

“Doug, I don’t know how much longer I can teach. I was diagnosed with MS this summer. (He was 44.) I’m losing muscle strength and tire quickly. When I leave, I want to know that the person I guided is here for the students. Teaching is changing. Many instructors your age don’t want to spend the time preparing and teaching. I watched you in practice teaching. You are still rough around the edges, especially when you let some of the local dialect slip out.

“But you are prepared, and you care for the students. You have full access to my material, and if you need more clarification on a lesson, come to me. Is that understood, and will you agree?”

I said yes to both and left Carl’s office, relieved and humbled.

David had been my first-year grade eleven English teacher before we met on my first day at work six years later. He also had a Master’s degree in English. As a lost and bored student, I enjoyed David’s teaching style. He seemed to blow into and around the classroom. He had energy, and his feisty teaching style kept the class on its toes. David’s preparation seemed limited to a few notes scribbled in the corners of the Teachers Plan book.

As coworkers, he and I bonded almost immediately. We shared a quirky sense of humour, which included an irreverent worldview. David believed his coworkers lacked the necessary degree of skepticism and that I might know what he was talking about. He offered me free access to his teaching materials to demonstrate his confidence in appointing me as his consort. 

The fact that our desks were adjacent ensured I could call upon his vast vault of knowledge.

So, there it was, for very different reasons; both Master instructors had adopted this young teacher and would ensure his success. As I matured in the field, I did take pieces of their styles and moulded them to fit my personality. I remain grateful to Carl and David, both of whom, as Shakespeare would say, have “thrown off the shackles of this world.” I hope I did not disappoint them.

I promised to include input from students who helped me craft my career.

Christine was a grade twelve student in the Business program. She had a sincere and lively personality. She was part of a class of students from the Industrial and Clerical programs. The group was on a vocational stream, and English was not a favourite subject. The curriculum included a unit on poetry. I knew this would be an uphill battle.

We talked it over, and with their help, I put together a course that featured lyrical music from our albums. We laid out a list of objectives we would look at in the songs, and each class would feature about four pieces. It was a sensation. I was intrigued by the students’ interpretive skills. They made up for their lack of eloquence by connecting a song’s message and their lives.

 Several years later, I met Christine in a local store. She introduced me to her daughter as “the best English teacher I ever had, and Mr. Dolan, that music thing you did was some nuts!” I hold that comment as a tremendous compliment.

Ricky was a quiet and serious pupil in my grade eleven class. He was a solid second-level student, so when his marks started to slip, I was concerned and talked with him after class. I didn’t want to pry into his personal life. I recalled my angst at that age. I offered an ear should he want it. And I added that he was intelligent with real potential, encouraging him not to be discouraged if things were bad now. They would change if he stayed focused. His marks improved, and he passed easily. 

Twelve years later, Ricky was a senior police officer, and I was the Department Head of Protective Services at a Community College. We were reviewing a small project on which I had agreed to help. 

Wrapping up our discussion, he became quiet and asked if he could share something with me.

“Doug, you may not remember me in grade eleven (I did). My marks were slipping. You took the time to show me you noticed and encouraged me to keep focused. I always remembered that; it helped me get where I am now. Thank you.”

Gregg was one of those students who was a pleasure to work with. Intelligent, polite and focused. Despite being shy, he consistently enjoyed my classes and was always eager to participate. I was reading the provincial news recently and saw that he had been appointed to serve as a judge in the provincial court system. I sent a brief congratulatory email. I was surprised and humbled when he replied, telling me he considered himself extremely fortunate to have me as his teacher. He made particular mention of feeling respected as my student.

I am generally proud of my work in teaching and my relationship with my students. I incorporated many life lessons I was taught as a student and later as a teacher. I am disappointed that the students did not know me as a gay man. They would have seen a more expressive, spontaneous person open to different ideas and people. For those former students whom I may have curtailed their uniqueness, I apologize. And to my former self, I am sorry for not letting your light shine as brightly as it could have. You did your best, and your students are the better for it.