For years, I’ve carried this poem by Sharon Olds in my heart. Every day at school I would see its ancient history and prophesy fulfilled – a record of each of our school histories and our present influences.
Good teachers ensure that children “feel cared for, understood, challenged (and) appreciated,” retired educator Todd R. Nelson writes. Mark Lennihan/Associated Press
“Mrs. Krikorian,” the teacher who was an “amiable giantess with the kind eyes,” begins:
“She saved me. When I arrived in sixth grade,
a known criminal, the new teacher
asked me to stay after school the first day, she said
I’ve heard about you. She was a tall woman,
with a deep crevice between her breasts,
and a large, calm nose. She said,
This is a special library pass.
As soon as you finish your hour’s work –
That hour’s work that took ten minutes
and then the devil glanced into the room
and found me empty, a house standing open –
you can go to the library.”
Do you remember your Mrs. Krikorian – the teacher who took you in; who looked past your rap sheet and outward appearances and touched your potential with a knowing look or kind word? Who was your gentle giant or giantess? Who gave you extra time in the library?
What I remember most vividly is my teachers’ tone of voice. Mrs. Tapley, Mr. Williamson, Mr. Stevens: They all had perfect pitch, a stature, and bearing. The effect of their pedagogy and curriculum shows up to varying degrees in my adult writing, math skills, spelling or geographic literacy. I have a good working knowledge of the earth’s important physical features; I can spell pretty good. But what I learned from them is not necessarily the most important memory. It was their tone – their attitude and feeling, toward me and toward their beloved academic subjects – through which they created an expectation for learning; a deep sense of aspiration. Good teachers create positive tone by making children feel cared for, understood, challenged, appreciated.
Of course, I also remember their moments of righteous indignation, mock ire and appropriately timed withering glances. I can still hear Mr. Stevens, my fourth-grade teacher, scolding Vicki for making a sixth trip to the pencil sharpener in order to drop yet another note on Caroline’s desk, instead of paying attention to his lesson on the apostrophe. I do not remember his lesson, per se. But Mr. Stevens somehow made it personal; hence, I can form the possessive singular. Can Vicki say the same? Surely she, too, remembers the values in his tone.
I knew from their tone that my teachers were powerful, or not; knowledgeable, or faking it; sincere, or going through the motions; secure, or insecure. Looking back, I know that learning occurred most spontaneously, deeply and lastingly for me when the tone synced with my developmental timing, and allowances were also being made for the unique tenor of any given day. It was then I allowed myself to be taught – or conspired with my teachers to learn, in spite of myself.
It’s the fundamental transaction of good schools and good teachers: creating an atmosphere in which students can learn because their teachers know them intimately, have their trust, and ingeniously, authentically, adapt information and skills.
Have I effected a few of these transactions in my years in education? I humbly hope so. I am certain of a few individual breakthroughs (“So that’s what that poem means!”); confident of training young writers in key skills (even punctuating the possessive plural!) and hopeful that I’ve recruited, hired and supported teachers whose gift for perfecting their tone assured some future grateful memories of joyful learning. It would be my tribute to Mr. Stevens to think that I had, in fact, struck the right tone for just a few of my students and colleagues, as he did for me.
And whose Mrs. Krikorian will you be this year?
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