The Silent Wall
Did you ever have one of those teachers? One that might better be called a mentor. A teacher that invited you to spread your wings, broaden your horizons, feel good about yourself? What was his or her name? They probably patted you on the back saying, “Good job! I’m proud of you” with an entirely sincere smile. Why can’t they all be that way?
I have had many excellent mentors and many of them teachers. Men and (mostly) women who saw it their life’s work and joy to guide, counsel, edify, and educate my mind and spirit. I could name them one by one from my Sunday school teacher who cried with me over the Easter story or my high school junior honor’s English instructor who took a firm hand and keen interest and on and on, but it will be those whose shadow still make me shutter that are the reason, I suspect, not every teacher licensed by the state could meet the qualifications of a mentor. Not just the mediocre kind whose names I probably can’t even remember, but the bad kind. The kind that seek to kill the spirit, the joy, the child. The greatest impact a teacher ever had on me was probably in the most negative way .
Second grade- in the late eighties this meant one could read, print neatly simple sentences, add, subtract. What else should a seven year old need to know? In my school, second grade meant quite a move. Physically, as I knew then, and psychologically, as I appreciate now. The kindergarten/first grade corridor was the newer section of the building. The tile was light and creamy. The walls a similar shade. It had more windows- I remember. Light and warmth exuded the surroundings and the personalities that inhabited it. There was a wall of windows from floor to ceiling in the corridor connecting the new and old sections of the building. The older section of the school housed grades two through five, the office, and a large room that served both as the cafeteria and gym (smelly!), which extended the length of one enormous hallway. Far down, at the very end was situated the second grade rooms. This part of the school was darker somehow. The tile was more brown than cream and beaten with the decades of use. It looked tired and yucky. The way you feel after a long week with a head cold. There seemed to be a snot colored green mixed with the brown to finish off the décor.
My classroom was the first in that section, just past the restrooms that separated the second and third grade, far from the distance double doors that were the only source of natural light. My teacher was unfortunate enough to have a last name that I always associate with spooky stories and wore red sweaters with Scotty dogs on them year around. She seemed old at the time, but age is hard the judge at seven . I actually remember very little about her or my classmates. I know I was separated from most of my friends. My best friend Jennifer had a young, pretty teacher with a French sounding name who everyone loved. This teacher wore frosted lipstick, had teased blond hair, and smiled all the time. I was jealous in a longing sort of way.
I remember only two lessons from that year- one distinctly. In the back of the room, my teacher held reading groups. I was in the second reading group- not the first. That meant not really smart. I loved books. My mother and I read through golden books, Bernstein Bears, and the Bopsey Twin mysteries- copies my grandmother read as a girl and reread and reread by two more generations until the pages were worn and the bindings shredding. I still remember the one about the gypsy. But I guess I was not so good at oral reading or whatever those groups were based on. Somehow, though, it was clear we did not quite meet muster. One day we were in dreaded reading groups doing our round robin lesson. I have no idea what the piece was about except for the vague recollection of it being boring. When it was my turn to read, I read my paragraph not with butterflies in my tummy but with iron bars around it. In my nervous state, I pronounced the word “animal” as “aminal,” a term my mother thought was adorable and we used interchangeably at home. The teacher slapped the little yellow table, “The WALL,” was pronounced. My little insides shook with a shame I still feel this moment twenty-one years later. The iron bars twisted, tears crept silently out.
Hours of lessons seemed to creep by waiting for wall time . Strange cursive letters danced meaninglessly before my eyes until lunch time arrived. Silently we marched down. It was a no talking day in the cafeteria. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel particularly like chatting. I just waited with those bars barely loose enough to fit a peanut butter sandwich in. Then there was the march of the “wall kids,” slow and silent compared to the jubilant rush of everyone else. “Stand in box two. Turn around. I said turn around. NO talking!” the aid intoned in warden-fashion.
I spent quite a lot of time on that wall- the brick façade just outside the cafeteria doors on the playground. It was, I suppose, the worst punishment they could devise- recess spent facing a brick wall, always in the shade, always cold, while listening to other children play behind you. I talked too much, out of turn, instead a doing my work, any chance I got- or so I surmise because I have no memory of talking only the dread of opening my mouth. I remember staring at the bulletin board with my lips tightly closed- I would not talk today, I would daydream and stare at the wall, but I would not talk. Years later I found out that this misery did not escape the notice of my mother. At parent teacher conference the verdict was given down. Her daughter was “ a loud mouth brat.” Appeals to the principal did no good although my mother met with them twice. The year was half over. If they moved me, they would have to move everybody, ect. Suffering is said to build character. Suffering teaches lessons to heart and spirit. The lesson I learned was quiet. Not the peaceful, serene, reflective quiet, but rather a fearful and shameful quiet. Talk is bad. I was bad to talk. If I didn’t talk, I was good. And I so wanted to be good.
As a teacher, twenty-one years later, I find it ironic that I make my living talking, so do those who thought they knew me. The lesson, though, still looms in my mind every time I say “shhh.” Isn’t quiet the watch word of school? The rattle of untamed voices in a small room can be overwhelming. A student I had my very first year recalled to me once that I said it seventy-six times in one period- obviously I was making no one be quiet. But I now bite my tongue occasionally- a little talk won’t hurt, but silence might. Tame it, control it, direct it- don’t kill it. Education should tear down walls of oppression, not build them. I look at my students now and wonder- what kind of impact am I making, am I a horror or a mentor? I strive to be the later in all I do.
Hildegard Said:
on July 10, 2009 at 3:32 pm
Megan, I am glad you started with the fact that you had positiive mentor teachers ,too. You are such an inspiration as a young teacher – the good shows.
Hildegard