December 25, 2023
Remembering An Old Teacher
As I’ve mentioned often, memory is an important asset for a writer – and artists in general. Perhaps we can’t rely on memory for factual accuracy, but its connection with affective impact is undeniable. Moreover, precisely because of their emotive undertones, old memories can be impulsive, subjective, and come unannounced and unexplained. Remembering an old teacher of mine definitely falls under this category.
Like most of us, I’ve had many teachers in my lifetime. Teachers in elementary school, high school, university, and all sorts of other places. Some of them I remember very vaguely, likely because they were forgettable as teachers. Others I remember well for negative reasons – indeed, you can read about a recent example in my post on teaching literature.
Hell, I remember well one of those teachers because once he got some sort of nervous breakdown, took an object out of his bag – which was later revealed to be brass knuckles – and hit me and another dozen students with it, then proceeded to teach physics.
Obviously enough, I also remember many of my old teachers because they were good teachers, supporting my learning and making me feel positive about the overall experience.
But there is one specific teacher whom I remember well, and positively, though I was at his class only once. Remembering an old teacher who only taught you once isn’t very common, and the fact that this memory came out of nowhere these days felt interesting enough to write a post about.
Remembering an Old Teacher: The Smiling Man
I was ten or eleven years old at that time. The teacher in question was an English teacher, but didn’t teach my class. I had seen him coming and going to the school – he was hard to miss because he had some disability that made his walking extremely unsteady – but didn’t really interact with him.
He was young, I estimate around 35 or 40, with short, a bit curly dark hair that fit well with his square, a bit old-fashioned (even by that time’s standards) glasses.
And he always smiled.
Honestly, he was one of those rare people who manage to put you at ease just by looking at you. If I can think of the most menacing, threatening, imposing teachers of my childhood (and there were plenty), this guy was the exact opposite.
A Single Session
As I said, that man – whose name I don’t recall – didn’t teach my class. But there was a single occasion, for reasons I don’t recall (perhaps our regular teacher was sick), on which he did take over. It was a single session, 45 or so minutes. I recall almost nothing of the content, but I remember him talking.
Ever-polite, smiling, articulating with clear voice how certain expressions can be used in conversation, offering examples, making polite and informing remarks. And he was standing the whole time – a man whose legs barely supported him walking, didn’t sit down at all. He simply used the desk for a bit of support.
Remembering an Old Teacher: The Experience that Immortalized the Memory
I think that I would’ve remembered this man even because of that single session. Remembering an old teacher is easy when, as a ten-year-old, they manage to make such an impression on you based on personality and character.
Yet there is also one more event, one more interaction between us, that simply assured that I would retain that memory.
It was the end of the year, and my class were offered our report cards. Again, I don’t remember the practicalities involved, but it wasn’t our regular teacher calling our name and giving us our report card, but this man.
My classmates and I, about twenty kids in total, were all in the hall, together with a few teachers and a handful of parents. Our name was called, and each one of us went to the teacher to receive the report card and shake their hand.
The Perfectionist Kid
Before we proceed with the incident, you must hear something about me: Back then I was stupid enough to think I needed to get perfect grades each and every time. I was also stupid enough to think it mattered. Obviously, I had realized it was impossible, but I still felt extremely sad when receiving less-than-perfect grades.
With this in mind, as the man called my name and I approached him, my heart drumming in my chest waiting to see what was my overall grade, his eyes and smile immediately connected with me. I vividly remember it still, decades later.
“Well done,” he said, “this is very good!”
I shook his hand, took the report card, and slowly returned to the back of the room, trying to process the number I was looking at – 79%, well bellow my usual 85-90%.
And yet this man had congratulated me?
The Echoes (and Lessons) of History
Who knows, perhaps that was the reason I didn’t seem to get too sad about that number. Eventually I wised up to the fact that grades ultimately didn’t mean shit, and spent my high school days doing the absolute minimum required.
Later I had to go through the same process again, when stupid me thought getting a perfect grade for my MA thesis (a rather rare event for Finnish universities, “typically awarded for a thesis only once in 5 to 10 years”) would Disney-magically open the doors to an academic career – the rest is history.
But yes. Remembering an old teacher – that old teacher. Sometimes, some people only interact with you for a little while, but manage to make very lasting impressions. Sadly, this is almost always because of negative factors. But every once in a while, there is kindness too in this flawed world.
3 Comments
Comments are closed for posts older than 90 days
Sister Mary Philomena. 🙂 She was a formidable woman with a brilliant academic mind, and she was the headmistress of Our Lady of Mercy College – the all girl secondary school I attended.
I didn’t have anything to do with her until my matriculation year [year 12]. As luck would have it, she was our class teacher as well as teaching us English Lit. and religion [compulsory]. I think I first came to her notice because I got top marks for my essay on Hamlet. Then, about half way through the year, she caught me reading a book under the desk during…-gasp- religion class.
As I figured I couldn’t get into any more trouble no matter what I did, I confessed that the reason I was reading was because I was an atheist and couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. At this point I fully expected to be expelled. Instead, Sister Philomena grilled me for what felt like hours – I guess to see if I was simply making things up as an excuse. Once she was finished with me, it was the turn of the parish priest. And finally someone came out to interview me from the Archbishop’s office.
Through it all, I argued theology with all of them, and the upshot was that Sister Philomena excused me from religion classes for the rest of the year. She didn’t expel me. Instead, I was allowed to spend that class in the piano room practising. I credit that time for the fact that I passed Matric. Piano along with 5 academic subjects.
Most of all, I credit Sister Mary Philomena with making me realised that differences of belief /can/ be settled in a civilized manner. Thank you for bringing that memory back to me. She really was an amazing woman.
p.s. Merry Christmas if you celebrated it!
What an amazing story, thanks for sharing it! Season’s greetings to you as well 🙂
Sister Nora at our parish questioned each of the children about receiving the sacraments; our oldest did not get confirmed. We all thought it best. Including the parents who had faithfully taken our children to classes for years.
If you don’t believe, pretending is only necessary with parents who also think their God will be please by forced observance.