Here's another teacher memory from Tales Out of School written by Chuck Tatham. It is dedicated to all former class clowns and to the teachers who taught them!
*************************************************************************************
The Awakening Hormone Crowd

I’d like to tell you about a teacher who changed my life. The effect on my life was not immediate, but I have thought about it often.

Back in the early grades, I was a veritable loudmouth. This is not to say that I am any less long-winded now, but I really did enjoy listening to myself talk back in Grades 5 and 6. By the time I reached Grade 7, I was a candidate for "Class Clown of Canada" and I had almost no regard for any of the activities or lessons I was supposed to be quietly absorbing.

My marks were consistently excellent and I was frequently bored. I had a fine group of buddies who would pick up the verbal slack whenever I got hoarse. All things considered, I was in an enviable position. I assumed that Grade 7 would be a logical progression from Grade 6, the only possible changes being that the quality of the comedy would improve, and the audience (my amused classmates) would be even more captivated than in previous years.

My Grade & teacher was a woman named Jane Tweedale. She was around twenty-five, an attractive, soft-spoken person, whose feminine curves were not lost on those of us in the “awakening hormone” crowd. Her manner, right from the opening seconds of that first day in September, was one of tolerance and understanding. In hindsight, I sincerely believe that she considered us to be mature, sensitive people with a genuine interest in learning.

That was, for lack of a better phrase, an error in judgment. I was an ungodly terror, and by the third week of school, I was spending upwards of two hours a day slumped in the hallway, concocting new and more terrible plans to be unleashed the next time poor Miss Tweedale was foolish enough to allow me entrance to the classroom. Regular visits to the principal proved remarkably ineffective (although I developed a decent rapport with his kind secretary), and Grade 7 accelerated me into a series of detentions, reprimands and more essentially pointless discipline.

And now, with the passing of time, I’ve forgotten exactly what I said and did. All the wisecracks and flying erasers and paper aircraft have blurred into one crazy, distant memory, and they now seem pretty unimportant. What does remain important – no essential – is my memory of Miss Tweedale and how she treated me.

Unlike many other teachers, she understood my intelligence and my need for attention, and while (at the time in her budding career) she might have effectively extinguished my lust for classroom chaos, she never really lost her temper with me. I would remember the way she would look at me as I cocked my arm to fling yet another piece of chalk — an expression of despair and incredulity — and I always felt, well, a bit guilty. I’m not sure if it really was guilt (it’s not easy for a twelve-year-old to appreciate the true value of heartfelt guilt), but I recall a sense of great affection for Miss Tweedale, affection I maintain to this day. She didn’t want to holler at me; she didn’t want to exert authority over me; she just wanted me to shut the hell up!

Tragically, I never did. Nonetheless, after I left Grade 7, it became obvious to me –and the younger kids behind me at school – that Miss Tweedale had lost some of her lenience, and maybe some of her innocence after that year. When I returned for Grade 8, I was no longer in her class, but it was apparent that her tolerance for havoc had lessened appreciably. And that’s not to say that I, in any great way drove her to assume this somewhat less sympathetic attitude. Lord, I hope I’m not responsible, but it sure looked as if she was a bit more of a teacher and a bit less of a well, of an older sister.

I’ve never told Miss Tweedale these thoughts, and I probably never will, but somewhere I’m sure she’s teaching, and I’m equally sure she’s more than capable of handling whatever nonsense today’s prepubescent egomaniacs have for her.

I do remember, one day, however, a few years ago when I was home from university and there was a knock at the door. My father answered it, but I was sitting in the kitchen and could clearly see who it was that was calling. It was Miss Tweedale. I don’t remember the exact specifics of her visit (she sang in the church choir with my mother; maybe she needed an extra hymn book), but I do recall looking at her and feeling nothing but unadulterated affection. She smiled at me and nodded hello, but it was probably difficult for her running into College Avenue Public School’s answer to Lee Harvey Oswald.

Then she left. I haven’t seen her since, but she is with me, in a strange sort of way every day of my life. Now when I encounter someone whose behavior offends me, whose lack of interest distresses me, whose apparent contempt for a topic near and dear to my heart makes me want to lean over and throttle them, I think of Miss Tweedale, and the way she used to look at me. And when that happens, I become unbelievably understanding. Thank you, Jane Tweedale.

A couple of people have asked me to post some stories from the original Tales Out of School, a book I compiled a number of years ago. Here’s an excerpt of one story called, "Once a month we played bingo" by Fran Brown of Lindsay, Ontario. Although it is a very sad story, it's one of my favorites. I’ll include a happier one tomorrow.
*************************************************************************************

My story about teachers is very negative. When I think about my school years, I realize they were not happy times. We lived in a small town in Hastings, Ontario. My family consisted of my mother and my eight brothers and sisters. Father had left. It was the fifties and we were one of the few families, and I think the only family in the school, who was on relief. We spent time at home and at an orphanage.

Through no fault of our own we were poorly dressed, not too clean and improperly fed. Education was not considered important in our lives then, or in the future. We were shy and had no confidence, but we were well-behaved and polite.

The school we attended had only two classrooms. I was in Grade 5 in the room where grades 5 to 8 were taught. My brother and two of my sisters were in this room, too.

Once a month we played bingo at a cost of ten cents. The money went to charity. One day just before the game began, the teacher announced that my brother, sisters and I could not play, as out mother had not paid the $1.35 that was owed for our workbooks. The teacher took our dimes as partial payment and then sent us to the hallway where we sat on the floor and read for the rest of the afternoon. To this day, I can still feel the terrible hurt my siblings and I felt. Words cannot describe what this does to a child.

At this same school the students would be asked to draw pictures of their fathers and tell the class what they did for a living. It was a very small community and everyone knew that our father was in jail. We had nothing to draw and nothing to say.

Today I hear about teachers asking the same questions about fathers or parents or asking what the kids ate for breakfast, or where they’re going for vacations. These are personal questions and they should not be asked in front of a class. Teachers should live in the real world. Not everyone has a father, or three square meals a day, or holidays that are spent on trips away. Teachers should take the time to speak with the child alone.

A teacher’s role in a child’s life is so powerful and what they say and how they treat you can stay with you for a lifetime. Teachers, if you look into the eyes of a young one with rumpled hair, dirty clothes and looking very poor and tired, try to find that spark of something. It is there. Because if anyone needs a loving teacher, a role model, a ray of hope, these children do. These are the children who will keep your memory alive. Let them be good memories.

*************************************************************************************
What do you remember about your teachers and school days? Want to send me your story? For informaton, read the blurb on the upper left side of this page and then scroll down to older posts and look up my January 19 entry. I'd love to read your story!

The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by Irish writer, John Boyne, is a wonderfully poignant and powerful story about two nine-year-old boys named Bruno and Shmuel, and a barbed-wire fence that initially separates the boys, whose lives are worlds apart. Set during the Holocaust, the book describes the evolution of their unlikely, and ultimately, tragic friendship. My Uncle Joe gave it to me when Jerry and I were in Dublin in August. It is a beautifully written book that Uncle Joe loves and so do I. I would strongly recommend this book to teachers and their students.

Want to read an interesting book? I just finished The Freedom Writers Diary by Erin Gruwell and her students. The teacher, Erin Gruwell, young, White and naive is slotted to teach a group of supposedly "at-risk" and "unteachable" Black, Asian, and Hispanic students from the "wrong" side of the tracks. Written in diary format, and based on a true story, it describes how a first-year English teacher and 150 students used writing to change themselves and the world around them. The first-hand accounts by the students are full of love, laughter, tears and resiliency. It's a great book on so many levels. I suspect the book wil be required reading in many faculties of education. It'll be interesting to see how the book translates into film. It's on my list to see!