Teacher Preacher

A teacher can make or break you.

I remember seeing my teachers as non-human. Running into them outside of school left me feeling strange. They had lives too? They shopped for groceries, put gas in their cars and had families of their own? But during the school year, they were a steady fixture in the classroom, a part of my daily life. They represented an extension of my parents who would help me overcome my hardships as I tried to fit in an ever-changing environment that continually sucked me in and then spit me out.

Teachers were there to help the ones continue to perform well and give additional support for those who struggled to grasp the concepts.

Grade 7 was one of my best years. Mrs. Peacock-Snider was my homeroom teacher. She loved my work and I received constant public praise for all my subjects. However, all Hell broke loose when it came to Math and my life seemed to turn down a dangerous path. Our homeroom class always had a different Math teacher every grade. And I never seemed to be paired with the right one.

Mr. Rhodes was probably the most popular teacher in our elementary school--all the kids loved him, and initially, so did I. He was extremely witty, funny and engaging in the classroom. He made our class fun and enjoyable. But it took half a year to realize that his treatment of me differed from the rest of the class. And I started believing that there must be something wrong with me if everyone else loved him.

No matter how hard I tried to impress Mr. Rhodes, by studying hard, doing the bonus questions on all the math tests and staying after school for extra help, I never fell into his good books. I tried my best to achieve the highest marks in his class but I fell short. Everyone else understood the concepts and teaching methods but, alas, I struggled the whole year. I finally came to grips that my mind just didn't work that way. And it didn't help feeling ostracized on top of that.

"Mr. Rhodes, I just don't know why I get Bs every test! I study hard, come for extra help. I guess I really don't get it," I remarked one day after school. There was one other girl waiting with her Math book under her arm while I spoke. I scratched the mop on my head and adjusted my glasses. Tara brushed aside her lovely blond hair, and fluttered her blue eyes while smoothing her stylish clothing. I looked down at my ratty sweater, green pants and three year old running shoes that were one size too small.

I could tell he wanted to brush me aside so he could focus on Tara. "It's because you are lazy," he announced, avoiding eye contact, while my own eyes widened with shame. I had nowhere else to look. Was he testing me? Was he challenging the truth? I shrunk a little more. He was six feet tall and normally not menacing. That day, he seemed exasperated with me and wanted to move the conversation on.

"I am not lazy. You should see my other marks. I have the highest mark in Grade 7 in every other subject," I lowered my head so he could not see my tears.

"Well then apply the same study habits to Math as you do those subjects," he said and then turned gingerly to Tara and asked her sweetly, "What can I do for you?" He continued to ignore my presence as I waited, not realizing his last statement was a signal for me to leave. Mr. Rhodes proceeded to the blackboard to work through an equation she was stumped on. I watched how he carefully mentored her with support and encouragement until she grasped the concept. He was patient and caring--no sign of the brisk abruptness he exercised with me.

Age twelve is a young age to be disgusted with the human race, but that day was one of my lowest points in my elementary career. Too young to understand that having his approval was the not the be all and end all--however, yearning for teacher approval was like wanting your parents to hug and protect you.

Career aspirations and educational choices are directly influenced by teachers. Many have lost the passion or truly enjoy what they teach. It has negative repercussions on their students. Maybe you disagree. A teacher, parent, mentor, manager or role model. Non-existent you say?

Without a doubt, Mr. Rhodes was a great teacher--just not for me, for reasons beyond my comprehension back then and today. Perhaps I was not the model child in his eyes, God only knows. Ironically, throughout the years, I never had a 'great' math teacher, who made me love fall in love with the subject or change how I processed the concepts. And perhaps my psyche subconsciously arouses negative feelings when I think of Math because of him. Any excuse in the book?

I can tell a more positive story. And again, all it took was one teacher.

Many years ago, I switched my major in University from Sociology to English because of one tutorial assistant, Grant, who taught my first year English course that summer, off-campus. I took English as an elective course, only to fill my schedule. In short, Grant changed my destiny.

"You may not get it now, but you are on the road to greater things..." he said to me, looking me squarely in the eye, one night after class while I watched him red pen all over my first essay. He never degraded my efforts or told me I was lazy. Instead, he saw a small light and he illuminated it with his kind eyes and encouraging voice. I knew then, what he told me was the ultimate truth, to no gain of his own.

Years later, when I was the first up on stage to receive my Honours Degree in English Literature, all while finishing top of my class with High Distinction and on the Dean's list, I looked out in the crowed to my father, husband and in-laws, who were smiling and applauding wildly.

But in that moment, I could only remember Grant. He stayed with me all those years as I struggled and toiled through all my classes, balancing a family, work and school, up all hours of the night, revising and reviewing my essays. And I kept hearing his soft voice ringing in my ears, year after year, pushing me to finish and in the end, achieve greater things.

A teacher can make or break you. It's ok. I chose the right road--and I wrote it...with his help.