Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned

As a teacher you don’t really know what you’re doing. That’s not a shot at teachers, although I’m sure all of us have had a teacher or two that we’d swear didn’t know what (s)he was doing.  No, it’s recognition that what we teachers think we’re teaching isn’t necessarily what our students are actually learning. We may know what we’re trying to do, but what we actually accomplish, well, that’s another story.

Before the age of FaceBook , most of my psychic rewards came from random meetings of students in Grandpa Pigeon’s or someplace similar, all of whom were complimentary or apologetic, but positive. In today’s world, sporadic posts pop up complimenting my efforts, all of which are appreciated. I’m not really all that humble. I know I made a difference in a lot of lives.

However, what surprised me back in the day in Grandpa Pigeon’s, and surprises me today in both the real and cyberworld, are the compliments from students I didn’t realize I had impacted that significantly. Sometimes I think (thought), “Really. I barely remember you and you’re telling me I changed your life or was your favorite teacher?” I have old-style thank you notes or senior pictures telling me something similar; they’ll come in handy for whoever plans my funeral. So this isn’t a new lesson, but every once in a while I get reminded that, as a teacher, I influenced people in ways that I never expected, just doing my job in my own way.

Marita Woodruff was undoubtedly one of the most influential teachers I ever had, especially on the college level, and I was with her for about 15 hours one week in a 1-credit course getting my MAT at Webster College (as it was known then). I had always been interested in drama, had co-written and co-directed a play my senior year of high school, had taken a drama course at Washington University with then Post-Dispatch drama critic and late Harold Ramis mentor, Herb Metz, and had been privileged to work with Debbie Weissflug on You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown as she resurrected a moribund drama program at Hancock High School. 

I ended up directing at least four plays at Hancock, concluding that aspect of my life by helping with a Charlie Brown revival that reintroduced musicals at the Place in 2006. I even tried my hand on the boards, teaming with my friend Sam Hack and playing Felix in a fund-raising production of The Odd Couple. I certainly make no claim to greatness in the field, or even competence, but whatever I accomplished was thanks to Ms. Woodruff. In that short week of classes she managed to focus mere interest and enthusiasm into something more. She wouldn’t have remembered me, but I will always remember her, and if any of the kids I directed feel like they benefited in any way from working with me on plays, then they, too, have her to thank, more directly than they might ever have realized.

Ms. Woodruff died February 17 [2014]. Based on her obituary she was as remarkable a teacher as I remember, influencing many people before and after my short time with her. That’s the way teaching is. We just never know who we are influencing, changing, or how. Was it content, a random remark, perhaps just kindness? We may never know if a lesson’s goal was actually accomplished; but I hope those of my friends and formers still practicing the honorable and incredibly difficult performance art of teaching take comfort in being reminded that you’re making a difference in ways you may never know and with students you’d never guess.

   So, on Teacher Appreciation Day, here’s to the teachers (and I am blessed to count so many of my former students in that profession), and a link (thanks Laura Leyes-Woods, although the link is almost 10 years old, so it may not work any better than I do) to an article recognizing your ongoing efforts to make the world a better place, one student at a time. Carry on with pride.

To My Daughter on Her 40th Birthday

Dear Nicci,

I can’t believe that it was a (chronologically impossible) 40 years ago that you, finally, made your way into this world and changed my life for better and forever. You have made me a better teacher, a better husband, and a better person.

I had absolutely no clue that February morning, after panting through the night with your mother (the toughest woman I know) at the old St. Luke’s Hospital on Delmar, what was coming my way, but every day I loved you more, from Day 1 through, now, Day 14,610. You made that easy, of course, by being, well, you, a incredible woman of intelligence, integrity, and inspiration. Ironically, given that last sentence, you’ve never been about the “I” but about those around you, generous and giving. You define empathy. We still remember, when you were barely two, having to “rescue” the doll you gave to a crying child, a stranger, in the airport.

I posted a piece of whimsy last week about parenting being hard. Not that we didn’t consciously work at being the best possible parents we could, but you made it less challenging. You were a great kid, and it has been, and continues to be, a pleasure to watch you grow into a great adult, and now to observe as you work, and succeed, at being a great mom to Becca, your own piece of you, that gift you and Ben have given Mom and me, and the world.

Before I get deported to Wisconsin, the cheese capital of the country, I love having you as my daughter – and my friend. That is another gift you give us, not only on your birthday but every day. While we did not try to be your friend as you were growing up, it was our goal to raise you so that we could be friends after you reached adulthood. We are so glad that worked. Happy birthday. I love you.

Late Learner

Why has it taken me so long to become a good student? I think the expression “life long learner” loses something when you don’t really start maximizing your efforts until you qualify as a senior citizen.

Ironic as it may seem, for someone who loved his long career as a teacher (and is still loving it in its current, very limited, iteration), I was a bad student. My GPA declined every semester from my freshman year of high school on, finally bottoming out at .6 as a second semester college sophomore (after that, my year-designation rated as undetermined until I finally graduated). Yes, that is 0-decimal-point-six (3 Fs, a D and a C, for those of you keeping score at home, and didn’t include PE, which I also failed, and the speech course I dropped before I got an F there, as well).

Obviously I picked things up a little in order to graduate and get my teacher certification, although the following anecdote is telling, and this takes place AFTER I was married (and graduated, but that’s another story. Anyway, it’s one thing to explain a bad grade to a parent; to your wife....) Carolyn had accidentally locked herself out of our first apartment and went next door to a neighbor, asking for a ride up to UM-St. Louis to retrieve a key. Her friend said, “You’ll never find him, that place is huge.” True, although certainly not on the scale it is today. Carolyn’s response, “No, it will be fine, he’ll be in the commons playing bridge.” She had no problem getting the key.

I actually did become a decent student at Webster University (née College) for my master’s, even joining as adjunct faculty for a class or two. I didn’t exactly revert to form for my Counseling masters (GPAs for masters degrees are a joke, requiring mostly attendance), but I complained a lot and had to force myself to actually show up to class. However, unlike my undergrad studies, I actually did show up.

Two weeks ago I finished a coaching clinic in Kansas City. I began attending these about 25 years ago, as I was about to take over the reins of Hancock’s softball program. For 10-12 years these conferences served as the kick-off (apologies for the wrong sport metaphor) for our Spring season. I kind of got away from them for a while, but still attended sporadically. This year I returned (the AARP room rate was cheaper than the sold-out “special” conference rates) and found myself taking copious notes at all the the sessions, even the ones that were less than relevant for me.

I occasionally wonder how much more I might have learned in college had I cheated by actually going to class, reading the material (but really, shouldn’t books with college text price points read themselves?), taking notes, etc. Of course, like my MAT from Webster, this clinci has immediate, practical applications. I can visualize how I’m going to use the information and look forward to being able to apply it sooner rather than later. My mind still wanders, of course, but only because I’m projecting forward something I just heard/learned.

I’m looking forward to sharing what I learned this weekend with my great “teammates” of the WGHS coaching staff, the remarkable young women who play for us, and the parents who support us all. My 40^th softball team is just around the corner and I’m anticipating once again, another enjoyable season. I am fortunate; I have had teams with bad records, but never a bad team. 

It didn’t hurt, of course, that softball season is also a harbinger of warmer weather, as I stared out at the ice from my hotel room in Kansas City and see the ice/snow combo still covering our deck at home.

Writing for Fun, Not Profit

A friend loaned me a copy of a magazine for writers marked with a couple articles detailing ways to monetize my efforts in that sphere. Flattering, but I need to get it back to him. I write because I like it, because it keeps my brain working, because I think I may offer a more or less unique perspective. I like money, too, enjoy spending it, but don’t want to be obligated to write for it, in the same way I didn’t want to be obligated to teach for it.

I mention that because I haven’t written (well, published) anything for over two weeks. True bloggers, both news and opinion, tend to publish something almost daily, even if they have nothing to say. Even worse are those who refuse to let the fact they don’t know what they’re talking about slow them down in their quest to take full and frequent advantage of the First Amendment, but, hey, this is America, where loud ignorance often masquerades as authority.

According to Kathleen Parker, whom I enjoy reading even when I don’t agree with her, columnists have the luxury of taking more time to ensure a quality product, but they still have deadlines. Deadlines force you to write artificially, at least sometimes, because, well, it’s your job. Back in the day I did write under deadline for TGIF, the HPCTA union newsletter. However, I was also, at the same time, a true-believer congregant worshipping at Our Lady of Righteous Indignation. Nothing like believing you have all the answers for changing the world to create a cornucopia of available topics. Not that anyone has offered me a paying columnist gig in any case, not even HuffPost. 

Because I now mostly write for me, I can, and clearly do, take my time, constantly revising, but without any real deadline pressure. Right now I have eight drafts (this makes nine until I publish) of pieces, but drafts they remain because whatever hook existed has faded into the background, I’ve lost interest, or I just don’t think they’re good enough yet.

I admit that having “followers” feeds my ego (closing in on 10,000 page views since moving to blogger.com, well over that if you count my WGHS softball blog), especially when they mention reading my stuff in a conversation with me, as happened a couple times last night, but, at a minimum, I owe whatever readers I have, and myself, the belief, even if it’s delusional, that what I put out there has some value and quality. I’m not sure this piece can claim either, but because recently nothing visible has come out of the word factory that is my brain, I decided to make sure the machinery is oiled and continues to function.

A piece I started earlier, but condensed to a single topic, has me thinking about a series of Hancock memoirs based on my career at The Place. Lots of stories from that unique little universe. I have to decide whether to start a separate blog for that or just make it a part of this one. No hurry though, because I have started writing those pieces only in my mind. An article’s road to a life (albeit a virtual life) on my blog is not a speedy one. Later....