I would put my mother on that list, though she was at the same time a teacher who inspired young kids from "difficult" backgrounds, as I had occasion to see; the week my father was dying, the afternoon after the lunch where she told me everything I had done/was doing in my life was wrong, that I should pursue writing as a hobby - 30 days after I had been invited to join the WGA, beating 25,000:1 odds - we stopped at her local supermarket, where the new manager turned out to be one of her former students, who was effusive in telling her "If hadn't been for you, Mrs. Cleaver, I wouldn't be here."
although I never taught below the early college level, since I spent my last fifteen years of employment at a Bronx Junior High School, I'd pitch in and do stuff whenever it seemed warranted. there was one Dominican kid named Eddy who somehow couldn't learn to read through the idiotic "Balanced Literacy." I used our mandated counseling sessions to help him out with phonics and a year later, he was reading beautifully. whenever he saw me outside the school, he'd introduce me as "the one who got him to read." it felt wonderful to hear this. in his last year (8th grade),a dance troupe came in and he realized immediately that he wanted to be a dancer, and has been a professional dancer (classical ballet, for godsake) for about fifteen years now.
another old HS student used to use my office to store the live pythons he brought to school (!). he became the head of security at a boutique hotel on the lower east side and I have pictures of going to visit him about fifteen years ago. maybe I'll post one as my profile pic some day.
the funny thing is that the kids I worried were gonna come back and shoot me were the ones who came back and thanked me, sometimes even tearfully.
I need to remind myself of this stuff when I find myself telling people that I remember so many things because I didn't have an "actual life." I actually DID. and I still remember everything.
Observed this process a lot when I worked in public schools. Sometimes some parents should never be allowed near young children.
I would put my mother on that list, though she was at the same time a teacher who inspired young kids from "difficult" backgrounds, as I had occasion to see; the week my father was dying, the afternoon after the lunch where she told me everything I had done/was doing in my life was wrong, that I should pursue writing as a hobby - 30 days after I had been invited to join the WGA, beating 25,000:1 odds - we stopped at her local supermarket, where the new manager turned out to be one of her former students, who was effusive in telling her "If hadn't been for you, Mrs. Cleaver, I wouldn't be here."
although I never taught below the early college level, since I spent my last fifteen years of employment at a Bronx Junior High School, I'd pitch in and do stuff whenever it seemed warranted. there was one Dominican kid named Eddy who somehow couldn't learn to read through the idiotic "Balanced Literacy." I used our mandated counseling sessions to help him out with phonics and a year later, he was reading beautifully. whenever he saw me outside the school, he'd introduce me as "the one who got him to read." it felt wonderful to hear this. in his last year (8th grade),a dance troupe came in and he realized immediately that he wanted to be a dancer, and has been a professional dancer (classical ballet, for godsake) for about fifteen years now.
another old HS student used to use my office to store the live pythons he brought to school (!). he became the head of security at a boutique hotel on the lower east side and I have pictures of going to visit him about fifteen years ago. maybe I'll post one as my profile pic some day.
the funny thing is that the kids I worried were gonna come back and shoot me were the ones who came back and thanked me, sometimes even tearfully.
I need to remind myself of this stuff when I find myself telling people that I remember so many things because I didn't have an "actual life." I actually DID. and I still remember everything.