Why I’m not a teacher (at least, not in the conventional sense).

Top: Charles Dickens Bottom: Arthur C Clarke

When I was a student teacher covering for the main teacher, Ms N (who had taken a vacation and left me in charge for a week and a half), I reached out to a troubled student who was missing a lot of class. This was 9th grade English, and he was refusing to read the assigned book, A Tale of Two Cities.

I had previously been in a meeting with Ms N, the principal, and the boy’s parents (genuinely concerned and nice people). I learned the boy was reclusive and belligerent and often locked himself in his bedroom for days at a time.

But he was also quite bright; there was a light that flickered occasionally when he lifted heavy eyelids from his desk; he otherwise kept his head bowed and stared at nothing; he didn’t doodle or fidget or read; he did nothing at all.

On my first day teaching solo (and Ms N on vacation), I got down on my knees next to him and asked what he liked to read. He said Arthur C Clarke. I said, “If I let you read Arthur C Clarke for class credit instead of a Tale of Two Cities, will you take a test on it and agree to be graded along with the others?”

He agreed. I assigned a Clarke book he hadn’t read that was near the same length of our abridged Dickens and off we went together and a journey of discovery. He even joined other groups and talked about the book he was reading and the book they were reading.

When my supervising teacher Ms N returned and found out what I’d done, she pitched a fit, told the principal and student he could not read Arthur C Clarke for credit and if he didn’t read the assigned curriculum he would fail.

I protested, but it did no good. I watched a troubled teen just coming out of his shell crawl back in. He eventually stopped coming to class altogether. I suspect his parents had to find specialized care.

I chose then not to become a teacher, even though I loved it.

An afterthought tomorrow.

[2014-04-16]

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