Elementary school grades 1-5 I went to Catholic school in New Jersey. My teachers were just fine, and honestly it never really dawned on me that a teacher could be anything but kind and helpful. Then 4th grade came along, and Mrs. Mouer. If you’re not sure how to pronounce that, it might help to know that we called her “sour Mouer” behind her back. She seemed to not care for teaching, or for children as well. She wasn’t a horrible person, or a horrible teacher, for that matter, but it was the first time in my life that I realized some people weren’t happy doing whatever thing in life they were doing. Up until that point, I didn’t even see teachers as fully realized people. I just saw them in their role in my life, as teachers. I can remember thinking, even at that young age, that maybe something was wrong in her life outside of school, and I actually started to feel a little bad for her.
To this day, when I think of her, I mostly have an image of a woman who was dealing with something outside of school, like maybe an illness or a divorce. My father had recently had some serious medical issues, and I remember thinking that maybe her husband was in the hospital, like my father had been. So even Sour Mouer played a role in my life, and started me down that road to empathy. She really didn’t do anything wrong besides be unhappy in her job, and compared to other teachers down the line, she was a picnic.
In fact, watching her do a job she didn’t find fulfilling, or in spite of the rest of her life falling apart, it taught me that a lot of life is just handling your responsibilities and getting things done. She seemed to expect more, and was a little harder on us than most, but I suppose she was as hard on herself, so we didn’t complain too much.
When I think back on those years, the rest of my teachers were kind and happy and pretty exuberant about their jobs, but I really couldn’t tell you a lot about them besides the fact that they seemed like what I expected teachers to be. But I just spent a few paragraphs describing the one teacher that wasn’t what you expect a teacher to be, so that must mean something. At least she made a lasting impression, so thank you for that.
Then I went to Texas for two years, and some of the teachers out there were downright cruel. They mocked me for not being from Texas, or for playing sports, and they paddled kids with what was essentially a cricket bat for the most minor infractions, as well as the male teachers being flirty and inappropriate with some of the female students. We’re talking 6th and 7th grade here. In fact, there was only one teacher who I can look back on and say that they actually seemed to care about me as a student, and I’m sad to say that I can’t even remember her name.
Almost all of my memories of school life in Texas are painful and traumatic ones, but I had a teacher who actually tried to make my life better. She was constantly telling me that I could do better, and I should apply myself more. She often pointed out that my mistakes were careless ones, not because I didn’t know the work. She knew I wasn’t having an easy time of it, although I don’t think she could have known the extent of the torment I was dealing with. Knowing I had that one class where I got a little reprieve from the hell that was the rest of the school day, and that someone in the school actually gave a shit if I was living up to my potential helped me tremendously.
Then I went to Texas for two years, and some of the teachers out there were downright cruel. They mocked me for not being from Texas, or for playing sports, and they paddled kids with what was essentially a cricket bat for the most minor infractions, as well as the male teachers being flirty and inappropriate with some of the female students. We’re talking 6th and 7th grade here. In fact, there was only one teacher who I can look back on and say that they actually seemed to care about me as a student, and I’m sad to say that I can’t even remember her name.
Almost all of my memories of school life in Texas are painful and traumatic ones, but I had a teacher who actually tried to make my life better. She was constantly telling me that I could do better, and I should apply myself more. She often pointed out that my mistakes were careless ones, not because I didn’t know the work. She knew I wasn’t having an easy time of it, although I don’t think she could have known the extent of the torment I was dealing with. Knowing I had that one class where I got a little reprieve from the hell that was the rest of the school day, and that someone in the school actually gave a shit if I was living up to my potential helped me tremendously.
She didn’t have to care at all, and that was when I first realized that the polar opposite of Mrs Mouer existed, someone who went out of their way to make a students life better. You have no idea how much it bothers me that I can’t even remember her name, but I think I consciously blocked out so many memories from those two years. The main takeaway is that even in that hell, a teacher made a positive impact on my life.
I should also mention that I took private art lessons in Texas, and that was wonderful. Mrs. Linda Fagan was my art teacher, and she was amazing. She was kind of a frumpy, overtly Christian housewife. Lessons were in her living room, and then moved to a studio over her garage for the second year. The thing is, she was an amazing artist, and so inspiring and encouraging. She taught oil and acrylic painting, and pencil and pastel drawing, still life, landscapes, animals, portraits, you name it.
I started with painting, and when she first met me she suggested acrylic because she didn’t think I would have the patience for oils. She was right. After the first few weeks of teaching technique, she let each student decide what they wanted to paint, so you would have a whole class of kids all working on something completely different. It didn’t feel like lessons at all, it felt like freedom and creation and was just joyous.
I should also mention that I took private art lessons in Texas, and that was wonderful. Mrs. Linda Fagan was my art teacher, and she was amazing. She was kind of a frumpy, overtly Christian housewife. Lessons were in her living room, and then moved to a studio over her garage for the second year. The thing is, she was an amazing artist, and so inspiring and encouraging. She taught oil and acrylic painting, and pencil and pastel drawing, still life, landscapes, animals, portraits, you name it.
I started with painting, and when she first met me she suggested acrylic because she didn’t think I would have the patience for oils. She was right. After the first few weeks of teaching technique, she let each student decide what they wanted to paint, so you would have a whole class of kids all working on something completely different. It didn’t feel like lessons at all, it felt like freedom and creation and was just joyous.
After a year of painting, I decided that wasn’t fast enough, so I switched to pencil and pastels. She didn’t miss a beat, and continued to teach me and encourage me to find what made me want to draw, not what she thought I should draw. She was the first teacher who made a really huge difference in my life, and whenever I pick up a pencil, I think of her.
Then we moved to Pennsylvania, and high school came along, and that was a real horrorshow. I got bullied and picked on, and treated like crap by most of the other kids. A lot of the teachers were okay, but most of them seemed like they were just doing a job, nothing more. A few stand out, though, and made an impact on my life whether they knew it or not.
Then we moved to Pennsylvania, and high school came along, and that was a real horrorshow. I got bullied and picked on, and treated like crap by most of the other kids. A lot of the teachers were okay, but most of them seemed like they were just doing a job, nothing more. A few stand out, though, and made an impact on my life whether they knew it or not.
My grades had started going steadily downhill since leaving Jersey. When I was young, it was almost a foregone conclusion that I was going on to college, and destined for some greater things. I tested really high, I was getting A’s and B’s, and there was even talk of skipping me ahead a grade. By the time highschool rolled around, I was having anxiety attacks and stomach cramps, and generally wishing I was dead. It was going to be a battle just getting me through highschool alive and passing, let alone being valedictorian.
The first teacher who really made an impression on me was Mr. Smith, my english teacher. He was very effeminate; and whether he was or not, the kids decided he was gay. They would mock him and make jokes about him mercilessly. 1980 in a rural Pennsylvania school is much different than it is today. No one was concerned with the rights of gay people, even their right to exist.
The first teacher who really made an impression on me was Mr. Smith, my english teacher. He was very effeminate; and whether he was or not, the kids decided he was gay. They would mock him and make jokes about him mercilessly. 1980 in a rural Pennsylvania school is much different than it is today. No one was concerned with the rights of gay people, even their right to exist.
It was hell on earth some days for Mr. Smith to simply do what he loved doing, to teach. Regardless of how the kids treated him, he rose above it all, and still had an enthusiasm for his subject and for teaching children. One day, after a particularly cruel joke, I watched him go out to the hall, holding back tears, to compose himself. He came back in a few minutes later, and went right back to teaching. He never gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing him break or changing who he was.
He was always positive. He knew I wasn’t having an easy time of it, and I remember once when I had to give an oral report on Animal Farm. I was a mess all week, thinking about getting up in front of that class. I couldn’t even write the report I was supposed to read, and I stayed home sick most of the week trying to get out of it. I would have been happy to just get an F and be done with it. I just made it worse, because when I came back to school, even though the other students had all given their reports the week before, he still expected me to give mine. So I ended up getting in front of the class, with no notes, and giving a really half-assed book report. I couldn’t tell you much about it, because I was breaking out in a cold sweat and the room was spinning the entire time.
When I got back to my seat, he critiqued me, and I remember it being the nicest, most understanding, and gentle critique I ever got from a teacher. He told me what I could have done better, but then he mentioned how I went up there without notes, and he said that showed I knew the subject and was brave, and even though I could have explained the plot better, he could tell by what I did say that I understood the book and its meaning, so for that he gave me a C+. Trust me, I was there, that report was not worth anything over a D-.
What he was telling me was that he got it, he knew how hard it was for me, and he knew I understood what I was reading. He made sure to hit some positives that I could take with me, and give me some praise in front of the class to take away some of the embarrassment and sting of flailing away up there in front of my peers. I was way ahead of most of the kids my age when it came to reading, and I learned a lot more about life than I learned about grammar and literature from Mr Smith, and that was what I needed more at that point in my life. He saw that, and never made it about his terms, he made it about mine, even as he was dealing with a lot of shit himself.
Mr. Helinski was my chemistry teacher, and he really seemed to like chemistry, teaching, and life. He was who he was, and he didn’t seem to care what you thought of that. He was fun, but knowledgeable, and he made learning interesting. He would kid around with me, but never pick on me.
One of the best things he ever did might sound foolish to you, but it made a difference in my life. On the last day of school before Christmas break, most of the classes were free period. On that day, he brought in his Tom Lehrer records, and played us the element song. Most of the kids could care less, and he could care less about that. A few of us really liked it, and we sat up front hanging out with him and listening to Tom Lehrer.
The thing was, Mr. Helinski wasn’t what anyone would consider cool. He wasn’t worried about winning you over, he simply seemed to be who he was, and he was fine with that. He took chemistry seriously, and expected you to as well, but it was still fun and laid back when he taught it to you. He never tried to single you out or make any power plays. He was all inclusive, he didn’t seem to favor anyone, and was kind of in awe that he seemed to be so confident without making a point out of being confident.
Mr. Terhune was my english teacher for senior year. He was probably the closest thing to a college professor I ever had. His classes were pretty open, and he would stray from the curriculum at times. He also seemed to see something in me that most people didn’t.
The first time I noticed was when we were reading Beowulf. We weren’t really far into the book, and he asked what any of us thought about it so far. I was one of those kids who hid in the back, and never raised my hand. He would still call on you anyway, because that’s what teachers should do. Get you involved, even if you don’t want to be. I would tend to hang back after class, and ask the teacher one on one, and most of them hated that. Mr. Terhune was okay with it, but he would still prod me to speak up in class.
So he made a point out of asking me what I thought about Beowulf, and I told him. I said I was bored with it, because Beowulf seemed invincible. He seemed like Superman, and Superman was pretty impervious to everything. I liked Batman. Batman could get punched, and it hurt. He could get shot and die. I felt like Beowulf was just hero worship, and I didn’t find a lot of drama there. Then I held my breath, shocked that I just said all that in front of a classroom full of kids, let alone tore apart a piece of classic literature.
He then exclaimed “Thank God! I’ve been teaching this old, boring thing forever and felt the exact same way. Good job, Ferraris. Everyone go home, read the book, we’ll take a quiz, and move onto something better!”
The kids seemed happy about that too, and for once I felt like everyone in the room didn’t hate me.
One other thing he did was come up with the funniest grammar test I have ever taken. He wrote it in the form of a story, about a kid who wanted tickets to see the Doobie Brothers, so he robbed a store or a bank to get money. It ended with him running from the police and being shot from behind. You had to go through the story and correct all the grammar. For extra credit, he told us we could finish the story on the back of the test any way we saw fit.
I was done pretty quickly, so I started writing. I filled up the back of the test, telling how the bullet didn’t kill him, and he made it home. He got a gun from his father’s rifle case, and held the police at bay, eventually hitting a gas line and blowing up the entire neighborhood. I was a pretty damaged kid at this point. So whatever, I turned in my paper and went to my next class.
The next day, I had kids I barely knew telling me how much they liked my story. I had know idea what they were talking about or how they even knew. When I got to class, Mr. Terhune handed us back our tests. He was talking about how only half the class bothered to do the extra credit part, but informed us that one student went above and beyond and wrote something amazing. He looked at me and said “Good job, Mr. Ferraris,” and then read my story to the class, as he had done to all of his classes so far that day.
I was terrified but proud, and I think some of the kids looked at me with respect, and some of them became a little scared of me. He paused at one point, and commended me on using the proper version or lay or lie, whichever it was. He told me that he wasn’t going to give me my test back, he wanted to keep it for himself, to share with future classes.
I had been writing stuff before that, but this was the first time anyone had ever read any of it, let alone heard it read out loud. It would still be a long time until I started showing people my work, but when I did, I still think back on that incident and how the world didn’t end, and people didn’t come after me with pitchforks. In fact, some people actually liked it. I now share my writing on the internet with everyone, and a lot of that started with Mr. Terhune. Before that moment, I thought I was wasting my time. I thought I would get over being a writer, and forget about it completely. Because of that, I was encouraged to keep going. Today I am a writer because a teacher gave me praise and recognition, and I could never thank him enough for that.
I didn’t make it in the end. I dropped out of high school in 12th grade, with only a few months to go. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wouldn’t have graduated anyway, because of gym credits, of all things. I would have had to make it up in summer school or something, so I just walked away.
Well, not quite. For some reason, they made me go to each of my teachers to have them sign some card to make it official that I was dropping all their classes. I think it was more to humiliate me than anything else. I remember I came up with something to tell each of them when they asked me why I was leaving, and the best I could do was say “I’m off to conquer the world by my own hand.”
I don’t know what that meant, but I thought it was some kind of fitting epitaph to my school life. It felt defiant, and powerful and confident. When I got to Mr Terhune’s room, I had already said it a few times, and was starting to feel foolish. I wished I could stop saying it, but it was almost like an OCD thing at that point. He asked me what I was going to do, so I uttered my stupid phrase, and he just looked at me. He told me that he believed that I could. He wished I would stay in school, but he understood why I couldn’t. He told me that I was smart, and talented, and destined for greater things, and he took out the test from months earlier, and said I could have it to remember what I was capable of. I told him to keep it, I didn’t need it to know that, and besides, I liked that I was leaving something behind here, even if it was just a stupid story about a kid who blew up his block in a bid to see a concert.
And then I left, and I never really looked back. It was scary and exhilarating, and besides my typing skills, the only thing I took from school that really stuck with me is what I learned from a handful of teachers who touched my life. There were others along the way. Some offered me encouragement, some went that extra mile, and even though it didn’t really pan out for me in the end, I appreciate that they tried to educate me, even when I resisted.
My niece is a teacher now, and a really good one, and I am so proud of her. Her students love her, and she goes above and beyond when it comes to her job. It is more than a job, it is a passion, how teaching should be.
There is a war on education in this country, and like most things that the government does that hurt the working class, it is led by Republicans. I’m not really making a political post here, but I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t point that out. Teachers are struggling, students are struggling, and that’s by design. There is money to be made in privatizing education, and putting money before students is a very bad idea. They are trying to starve the beast, and make public schools appear worse than charter schools. They are ruining our education system just to bleed more money out of us and our children.
They are quick to cut budgets, and school taxes, because they are unpopular. Selfish people cry that they have to pay school tax when they don’t have children, which is shortsighted, and frankly, disgusting. We work for the good of all of us, and if you don’t want to contribute to the education of this country’s children, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have kids, and I have no problem with it.
So here’s to teachers. I am sure everyone has a story to tell about some teacher who made a difference in their lives. For all the grief they get, they deserve a lot more praise, not to mention money. Teachers are the people molding and informing our future generations. Teachers are nearly as big a part of their life as you are. Why would we want to have them struggling and hamstrung? Give them what they need to teach better. Support them, vote for bigger budgets and better conditions, more equipment and smaller class sizes. Investing in teachers is investing in ourselves and our children, our country and our future.
And this is coming from someone who hated school and dropped out. I wish I hadn’t, but there are problems with our education system, like I said. But like I also said, the things that made it worthwhile for me were the teachers.
He was always positive. He knew I wasn’t having an easy time of it, and I remember once when I had to give an oral report on Animal Farm. I was a mess all week, thinking about getting up in front of that class. I couldn’t even write the report I was supposed to read, and I stayed home sick most of the week trying to get out of it. I would have been happy to just get an F and be done with it. I just made it worse, because when I came back to school, even though the other students had all given their reports the week before, he still expected me to give mine. So I ended up getting in front of the class, with no notes, and giving a really half-assed book report. I couldn’t tell you much about it, because I was breaking out in a cold sweat and the room was spinning the entire time.
When I got back to my seat, he critiqued me, and I remember it being the nicest, most understanding, and gentle critique I ever got from a teacher. He told me what I could have done better, but then he mentioned how I went up there without notes, and he said that showed I knew the subject and was brave, and even though I could have explained the plot better, he could tell by what I did say that I understood the book and its meaning, so for that he gave me a C+. Trust me, I was there, that report was not worth anything over a D-.
What he was telling me was that he got it, he knew how hard it was for me, and he knew I understood what I was reading. He made sure to hit some positives that I could take with me, and give me some praise in front of the class to take away some of the embarrassment and sting of flailing away up there in front of my peers. I was way ahead of most of the kids my age when it came to reading, and I learned a lot more about life than I learned about grammar and literature from Mr Smith, and that was what I needed more at that point in my life. He saw that, and never made it about his terms, he made it about mine, even as he was dealing with a lot of shit himself.
Mr. Helinski was my chemistry teacher, and he really seemed to like chemistry, teaching, and life. He was who he was, and he didn’t seem to care what you thought of that. He was fun, but knowledgeable, and he made learning interesting. He would kid around with me, but never pick on me.
One of the best things he ever did might sound foolish to you, but it made a difference in my life. On the last day of school before Christmas break, most of the classes were free period. On that day, he brought in his Tom Lehrer records, and played us the element song. Most of the kids could care less, and he could care less about that. A few of us really liked it, and we sat up front hanging out with him and listening to Tom Lehrer.
The thing was, Mr. Helinski wasn’t what anyone would consider cool. He wasn’t worried about winning you over, he simply seemed to be who he was, and he was fine with that. He took chemistry seriously, and expected you to as well, but it was still fun and laid back when he taught it to you. He never tried to single you out or make any power plays. He was all inclusive, he didn’t seem to favor anyone, and was kind of in awe that he seemed to be so confident without making a point out of being confident.
Mr. Terhune was my english teacher for senior year. He was probably the closest thing to a college professor I ever had. His classes were pretty open, and he would stray from the curriculum at times. He also seemed to see something in me that most people didn’t.
The first time I noticed was when we were reading Beowulf. We weren’t really far into the book, and he asked what any of us thought about it so far. I was one of those kids who hid in the back, and never raised my hand. He would still call on you anyway, because that’s what teachers should do. Get you involved, even if you don’t want to be. I would tend to hang back after class, and ask the teacher one on one, and most of them hated that. Mr. Terhune was okay with it, but he would still prod me to speak up in class.
So he made a point out of asking me what I thought about Beowulf, and I told him. I said I was bored with it, because Beowulf seemed invincible. He seemed like Superman, and Superman was pretty impervious to everything. I liked Batman. Batman could get punched, and it hurt. He could get shot and die. I felt like Beowulf was just hero worship, and I didn’t find a lot of drama there. Then I held my breath, shocked that I just said all that in front of a classroom full of kids, let alone tore apart a piece of classic literature.
He then exclaimed “Thank God! I’ve been teaching this old, boring thing forever and felt the exact same way. Good job, Ferraris. Everyone go home, read the book, we’ll take a quiz, and move onto something better!”
The kids seemed happy about that too, and for once I felt like everyone in the room didn’t hate me.
One other thing he did was come up with the funniest grammar test I have ever taken. He wrote it in the form of a story, about a kid who wanted tickets to see the Doobie Brothers, so he robbed a store or a bank to get money. It ended with him running from the police and being shot from behind. You had to go through the story and correct all the grammar. For extra credit, he told us we could finish the story on the back of the test any way we saw fit.
I was done pretty quickly, so I started writing. I filled up the back of the test, telling how the bullet didn’t kill him, and he made it home. He got a gun from his father’s rifle case, and held the police at bay, eventually hitting a gas line and blowing up the entire neighborhood. I was a pretty damaged kid at this point. So whatever, I turned in my paper and went to my next class.
The next day, I had kids I barely knew telling me how much they liked my story. I had know idea what they were talking about or how they even knew. When I got to class, Mr. Terhune handed us back our tests. He was talking about how only half the class bothered to do the extra credit part, but informed us that one student went above and beyond and wrote something amazing. He looked at me and said “Good job, Mr. Ferraris,” and then read my story to the class, as he had done to all of his classes so far that day.
I was terrified but proud, and I think some of the kids looked at me with respect, and some of them became a little scared of me. He paused at one point, and commended me on using the proper version or lay or lie, whichever it was. He told me that he wasn’t going to give me my test back, he wanted to keep it for himself, to share with future classes.
I had been writing stuff before that, but this was the first time anyone had ever read any of it, let alone heard it read out loud. It would still be a long time until I started showing people my work, but when I did, I still think back on that incident and how the world didn’t end, and people didn’t come after me with pitchforks. In fact, some people actually liked it. I now share my writing on the internet with everyone, and a lot of that started with Mr. Terhune. Before that moment, I thought I was wasting my time. I thought I would get over being a writer, and forget about it completely. Because of that, I was encouraged to keep going. Today I am a writer because a teacher gave me praise and recognition, and I could never thank him enough for that.
I didn’t make it in the end. I dropped out of high school in 12th grade, with only a few months to go. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wouldn’t have graduated anyway, because of gym credits, of all things. I would have had to make it up in summer school or something, so I just walked away.
Well, not quite. For some reason, they made me go to each of my teachers to have them sign some card to make it official that I was dropping all their classes. I think it was more to humiliate me than anything else. I remember I came up with something to tell each of them when they asked me why I was leaving, and the best I could do was say “I’m off to conquer the world by my own hand.”
I don’t know what that meant, but I thought it was some kind of fitting epitaph to my school life. It felt defiant, and powerful and confident. When I got to Mr Terhune’s room, I had already said it a few times, and was starting to feel foolish. I wished I could stop saying it, but it was almost like an OCD thing at that point. He asked me what I was going to do, so I uttered my stupid phrase, and he just looked at me. He told me that he believed that I could. He wished I would stay in school, but he understood why I couldn’t. He told me that I was smart, and talented, and destined for greater things, and he took out the test from months earlier, and said I could have it to remember what I was capable of. I told him to keep it, I didn’t need it to know that, and besides, I liked that I was leaving something behind here, even if it was just a stupid story about a kid who blew up his block in a bid to see a concert.
And then I left, and I never really looked back. It was scary and exhilarating, and besides my typing skills, the only thing I took from school that really stuck with me is what I learned from a handful of teachers who touched my life. There were others along the way. Some offered me encouragement, some went that extra mile, and even though it didn’t really pan out for me in the end, I appreciate that they tried to educate me, even when I resisted.
My niece is a teacher now, and a really good one, and I am so proud of her. Her students love her, and she goes above and beyond when it comes to her job. It is more than a job, it is a passion, how teaching should be.
There is a war on education in this country, and like most things that the government does that hurt the working class, it is led by Republicans. I’m not really making a political post here, but I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t point that out. Teachers are struggling, students are struggling, and that’s by design. There is money to be made in privatizing education, and putting money before students is a very bad idea. They are trying to starve the beast, and make public schools appear worse than charter schools. They are ruining our education system just to bleed more money out of us and our children.
They are quick to cut budgets, and school taxes, because they are unpopular. Selfish people cry that they have to pay school tax when they don’t have children, which is shortsighted, and frankly, disgusting. We work for the good of all of us, and if you don’t want to contribute to the education of this country’s children, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have kids, and I have no problem with it.
So here’s to teachers. I am sure everyone has a story to tell about some teacher who made a difference in their lives. For all the grief they get, they deserve a lot more praise, not to mention money. Teachers are the people molding and informing our future generations. Teachers are nearly as big a part of their life as you are. Why would we want to have them struggling and hamstrung? Give them what they need to teach better. Support them, vote for bigger budgets and better conditions, more equipment and smaller class sizes. Investing in teachers is investing in ourselves and our children, our country and our future.
And this is coming from someone who hated school and dropped out. I wish I hadn’t, but there are problems with our education system, like I said. But like I also said, the things that made it worthwhile for me were the teachers.
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