Friends,
There was a time when my sense of place in time was dictated by the school calendar. I miss those days, the ability to look forward to something cyclical. I don't think I quite miss school, not in the sense that I'd want to return to particular classrooms as a student, beholden to the whims of those nasty, chalk-wielding crones Ganakis and Downing.
Wait, is that okay to write? I have included a lot of names in these emails over the years, but rarely in a disparaging sense. Is there a chance I could face criticism for writing a mean thing? I will risk it: one of the two named teachers are dead, and I assume the other has one foot on a banana peel. They will not care much. So let me tell you that they were bitter creatures, especially Ganakis. I remember her perched on a stool behind a podium, peering out to snatch any laughter or chatter from the air and stomp it dead. Catholic teaching with an emphasis on silent reverence.
I sit now, three hundred miles and twenty-five years away. The quiet of my current moment allows me to wonder: perhaps I have happier memories of those people. They did have children, after all, and must have been loved enough by someone to survive through turbulent times. Shouldn't I have compassion for the people who taught me so many lessons about grammar, gender and abusive authority? But I have lived through turbulent times, have doled out compassion passes to millions of Americans who kick and punch and spit on others daily. Find me an era with no turbulence and I'll show you a year with no life.
In the middle of July, fellow St. Helena's School alum Ed Mulvihill sent me and James a message: our former seventh grade teacher, Sandra Carey, had died. Standing in the lobby of Showcase Cinema after watching Inside Out 2, I read her obituary and re-discovered the truth: teachers are first born as human beings, with personalities and passions and pasts unknown to the children sitting in their rooms. Ms. Carey graduated from Dickinson College, alma mater of James and Jamie, in 1959; she lived in New York for a time after school; she liked Rachel Maddow and likely was a liberal. Only one of these surprised me.
We cannot help but share ourselves when creating something. And what is teaching but creating a moment of discovery for someone else? One's perspectives and own knowledge seep into the lessons. For example, Ms. Carey said "mature" weirdly. Most people say it "meh-chur;" she said it, "meh-tour." Students laughed at her, but I looked it up one day after school. Her pronunciation was correct.
For the past few years, I've been clinging to a raft just trying to get through the days. Lately, the waves have calmed enough for me to chart a course. My current role, Career Advisor, has allowed me the opportunity to return to the classroom - as an educator. I provide Pre-Employment Transition Services to students with disabilities in some local high schools, talking to them about choosing a career and answering questions in an interview. I led a few sessions over the summer, but the past month has been pretty quiet. Now, after a few weeks of office-based life, I'll be back in the classroom tomorrow. I'm not sure I'm ready.
I want so badly for these classes to be meaningful, because I don't think that anyone else cares that much about what happens. My coworkers seem haunted by other memories and futures and skip my planning meetings regularly; the teachers are talking about "high" and "low" functioning groups; the state agency's new database requires me to enter demographic data for every student, but the paperwork states it's optional. It all feels, to put a fine point on it, like checking a box. Maybe I'm misinterpreting things, bringing my own understanding of disability politics and issues to this work. But for so long, the soft bigotry of low expectations - and the policies implemented to ensure that no children are left behind - have driven our understanding of education for all students. There must be standards, and students must meet them!
I appreciate that people want students to do well. I appreciate that parents and teachers and legislators want young people to be prepared for living in the world. I don't appreciate the motivation to make students contort themselves into a shape designed by adults with no apparent respect for the fluidity of life. The world we know is not the one that young adults are living in. We are not them, they are not us, we are not each other and we never will be. Every single thing we do and create must have that as its foundational idea.
One of the oldest objects that I still use is a blue folder with my name written in exquisite handwriting on its front. It was a gift, accompanied by a fancy pen whose ink bled onto papers and index cards so freely that I buried it twenty years ago. But the folder is in my living room and holds drafts of a dozen essays, some of which will one day appear on my website or some other space. This folder was empty for nearly a quarter century, but I kept it. Moving from Delaware to college to New Hampshire to four different apartments in Massachusetts, I kept it. It is a sacred item, given to me by a teacher who invited all of her students to share their stories, to put their thoughts down on paper and keep them gathered and safe.
Ms. Carey has never left me, and I will never forget her.
Love,
Paul
P.S. If you're interested, here's Ms. Carey's obituary.
Would you like to receive these Weekly E-mails in your inbox? Send me a message: paul@pinpoints.community