”SEE ME,” said the note in my mailbox. I headed out of the faculty lounge for the principal`s office, knowing I was about to become the sole panelist in another of his favorite games of ”Twenty Questions.” I felt certain I would not win a trip to Bermuda at the end of the round.
”Who,” he asked, ”stays in her classroom during her lunch break?” Not pausing for an answer, he lunged onward: ”And who doesn`t come to the lounge in the morning to talk with her colleagues?” And then he thrust his face forward, shouting his sharpest jab yet, ”Who isn`t a team player, young lady?”
He had me, all right. I did stay in my room a lot-reading the novels I taught, grading the essays I assigned, talking to students I hoped to encourage. I didn`t realize the points to be gained by smiling around the coffee pot in the lounge. But the other teachers were considerably older than I, and I felt we were worlds apart.
The principal went on to explain that I would not be receiving a merit raise and that he had reservations about my teaching ability. From this illuminating encounter, I crawled into sophomore English. Picking up ”The Glass Menagerie,” I asked, ”What does Tom mean when he tells Laura to blow out her candles?”
Mark, a usually silent boy, looked directly at me and raised his hand.
”That she should stop looking back at what can`t be changed and face forward and do something,” he said. ”That`s what really matters in life, or else she`ll finally burn herself down to nothing. Like a candle.”
I smiled and didn`t say a word. Some events in a classroom are as large as that lingering silence if you can keep your wits about you and not teach the heart right out of the moment.
I considered Mark`s comment and realized I was spending too much time worrying about my career and how it had stopped going anywhere, except back and forth to the principal`s office. Seven years of ”See me” notes had taken their toll. I took the administrative hint and resigned, deciding to make my way into a world that would pay me decent wages and reasonable respect. I had worked in publishing before teaching; surely I could work there again or elsewhere.
I might as well have stayed in the faculty lounge and tried bridging the generation gap. My career counselor, Debbie, was 20 years old. She itemized any number of clerical, mechanical and computer skills for which I seemed to have no measurable training. Exasperated with me, Debbie asked, ”Listen, do you know how to do anything?”
”I was an English teacher for a number of years,” I responded.
She excused herself to consult her supervisor, then returned. ”Gee, like I figured, that doesn`t qualify you for anything,” she said. ”I could sign you up for our Selective Skills Seminars.”
My next job-hunting venture was into that sector of the business community that I hoped would value someone with a talent for words.
”Where did you study journalism?” the newspaper editor politely asked.
”I didn`t. I have a degree in English.”
”English? I thought they said you were interested in writing?”
”I am,” I assured him, feeling the hope draining from my heart. ”I`ve been teaching writing and before I taught I worked in pub. . .”
”You`ve never written for a newspaper? Listen,” he said as he rocked back in a gesture of dismissal, ”the newspaper game is fast-paced, cutthroat. It`s no place for a teacher. Besides, someone who was an English major can`t simply walk into writing.”
I smiled and remained silent. A good teacher knows when a concept is beyond the developmental grasp of a student. Nevertheless, an important concept had been revealed to me.
A teacher is an odd fish to the business world, which sees itself as a well-suited trout. Teachers are like sunfish-insignificant, something you throw back. Business people cannot imagine that the communication talents used in effective classroom management have any application to running an office, chairing a committee or planning a strategy for solving a problem. The nature of the classroom requires a teacher to challenge students while at the same time being a master of diplomacy and humor.
As the publisher ushered me out, I decided I would accept myself as no flickering candle, but as that sly sunfish who winks with glee as it is tossed back into the pond for a second chance.
Good teachers are great at making metaphors that convey a powerful knowledge. This sunfish continues to swim upstream.
