Teaching is not my forte or calling

Yesterday and today I substitute taught sophomore English in Moscow, Idaho High School, which is a block from Kayle's and my apartment. The regular teacher, S.H., took sick Sunday night, and the woman who phones substitutes woke me with a call yesterday morning about 7:15 and asked if I could be at the high school between 7:45 and 8:00. I said yes, and I was.

The last time I taught school was when I substituted 2nd-6th grade classes in the spring of 1967 and 7th grade in the fall of 1967 in Chicago, before I moved to Canada, a war resister.

Needing to supplement my meager Social Security retirement income, recently I applied to Moscow School District to be a substitute teacher, office worker, kitchen helper, or whatever. The human resources woman at the district office said that, since I am not a certified teacher, my college degrees only qualify me to substitute teach on an emergency basis, such as when I was called early yesterday morning to substitute for S.H., who had gotten sick in the night.

Going into her classroom, I could see at a glance that she is an interesting person and superb teacher. The many books lying casually about the room had authors of such caliber as Plato and Camus. A lesson on the blackboard (or rather dry erase white board) was on literary, mythical, and Biblical allusions. On a bulletin board were clippings on contemporary social conditions.

Very luckily for me, also in the room was her husband, who introduced himself and mentioned that he is a retired university English professor. He had come to bring me a lesson plan that S. H. had written by hand in between being sick to her stomach. He was also there to mark-up student essays for a Martin Luther King Day local contest. That kept him present all morning, and thanks to his calm reassurances and example, I soon learned to trust the students to largely regulate themselves.

I had moments of doubt both days, as when a boy zipped about the room on a Razor scooter, or when a couple of boys started practicing their wrestling, or a girl asked to go next door to a multimedia room to practice her poetry recital and instead showed her friends a video she's made (and made impressively well), or when some kids at a table supposedly rehearsing their poetry recitals shot rubber bands at each other and pencil stabbed plastic cups into shreds, or when I asked one girl to go on an errands and three insisted on going, and so on. The scootering boy soon set his scooter aside and sat at his desk; the wrestling boys soon were walking about dramatically practicing their memorized poems; the girls watching a video were soon back to practicing their poetry reciting, the boys and girls shooting rubber bands and shredding plastic cups, having for the moment had enough of poetry, soon on their own had gotten out vocabulary cards. Both days I rarely felt a need to step in, and when I did, a mild suggestion was enough to keep the creative ruckus from getting too loud or wild.

In "The Second Coming" Yeats wrote, "Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer; / Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...." That's how it seemed at times in the classroom, and it was gratifying each time yet again I muddled through and yet again the students proved their developing reliability and maturity.

The main project yesterday was getting essays and art work done and submitted to the MLK Day contests, and those students who got done with that practiced for an upcoming poetry recital. I later heard from contest judges that the quantity and the quality of MLK Day contest entries was greater than ever this year. Today's project was more poetry reciting practice, with some advancing from small group practice to reciting to the whole class, with a prompter. All who took a turn gave it their best effort, and the quality of many recitations and of many of the feedback comments was outstanding.

The upshot for me of the experience is that I learned again, as back in 1967, that teaching is not my forte or my calling. I can get through a school day still standing and with sufficient positive results to give me satisfaction. But school teaching is work best done with whole-hearted dedication. Done well, it takes its own kinds of creativity and talents. I can muddle through but don't have the aptitude to do better. I don't speak clearly, don't have confidence, am not assertive, have a poor memory, am not an institution person, have little stamina, and so on. The deciding factor for me is that my calling and forte is in work with words--as a writer, editor, proofreader, bookman, and such. My job a few years ago as a parttime restaurant dishwasher fit my needs well, because the routine work gave my subconscious a chance to work on my writing projects. Teaching leaves me drained of mental and physical energy and in no shape to write.

I have not decided whether to limit my substitute teaching to a maximum two days in a week or to take my name off of the substitute teaching list altogether. I do know that teaching won't be a major part of my work life.

My admiration for both S. H. and her students is immense. They are in a Moscow High School tradition of excellence.