Those Who Can, Those Who Can't, and Those Who Shouldn't Teach

Rabat. It was George Bernard Shaw who made the disparaging remark that those who can’t make it in their chosen profession turn to teaching. As a former teacher and one with nothing but awe and respect for those devoted to education, I still rankle at that thought. But, let’s face it. Who doesn’t have some terrible memory (usually from grade school) of a misguided mentor who had no business in the classroom?

My six-year-old Moroccan niece plops herself down on the sofa where I’m stretched out reading a book. Rita knows I love to read and that I often disappear during family gatherings to “stick my nose” in one. She also knows I love to write and, in her boredom, has come to chat about story telling.

“Why do people write stories, Tatie?”

“Well,” I answer, “Usually it’s to share some experience that other people might relate to.”

I talk to Rita like an adult because, with no cousins her age, she’s used to the company of grown-ups.

“Hmm, like Justine and her story about the first week of school?”

I nod. Justine is a character from Rita’s Basic English Reader.

“When you read the story about Justine, didn’t you think back to your first day at school, away from your mom and how scared and nervous you were?”

“Oh, no. I was all smiles that day.” (I told you she was precocious).

I laugh. “I’m glad your first day went well, but that’s not the way most people remember it. And it probably wouldn’t make a very good story either. For some reason, people like to read about problems and times when things didn’t go so well.”

Her face darkens. Tentatively, Rita begins telling me about Mademoiselle “M,” her French teacher, who’s been scolding and punishing her daily for her ignorance and impertinence: ”You poison our class.”

I am shocked. And not just by the insulting language. Rita’s French is far better than mine was when I first landed in France as a college student in 1974 with eight years of studies under my belt.

“Maman went to speak to her, but it didn’t help.”

I’m not surprised. It didn’t help my five-year old son years ago when his father had a talk with his teacher after she’d sent him home in tears one day. Looking right at him, the only member of the class with a Christian mom and a Moslem dad, she’d given a lesson, promising fire and damnation for all “infidels.” My husband went the next day to point out Islam’s respect and tolerance for other religions, but to no avail. She continued to treat my son that year as an aberration. I could relate this story to Rita, but I don’t. Instead, I tell her another tale.

“When I was in third grade in a public school on Staten Island, New York (a planet far away), I was tormented for a year by my teacher, Miss Milana. No matter what I did or said, I was singled out as the “bad apple.” Up until then, I’d always been one of the teachers’ pets. But, smug, young Miss Milana found fault with everything I did, and eventually talked my parents into letting her keep a daily behavior log that had to be signed each night. I never understood the rhyme or reason behind the comments, good or bad. I only knew I dreaded going home on days when a note like “Good, but could have been better” was branded on the page. I’d dawdle on the way home and in the evening, try to distract my father’s attention, but he always asked for the log, and his stern, disappointed admonishment was the worst punishment. Some nights I’d be sent to bed right after dinner, deprived of my favorite television show.

“Totally frustrated, my father threatened to cancel all Christmas presents, but finally relented when my mom put her foot down. She’d been hearing things at the PTA meetings about the new third-grade teacher that sowed the first doubts. She decided to put a stop to the discipline log altogether. But, for me, the damage had been done. The other students played along and began to devise ways to get me in trouble. Only one friend stood by me and was rewarded with being sent to the opposite corner of the class from me.

“Then in the spring something happened. Our class had been working on Mother’s Day gifts for several weeks. We were making plastic purses, cutting, sewing, pasting a little bit each day.”

(“Yes, we do that too,” Rita interrupts softly.)

At “Craft Time” the Friday before Mother’s Day, all of a sudden Miss Milana started yelling at me for no reason.

(“But, you must have done something wrong?” Rita prompts.)

“Maybe I got out of my seat to fetch the scissors without asking permission,” I say, not really sure. “Anyway, Miss Milana began to scream hysterically at me. She grabbed the waste basket and began to make the rounds of the class, instructing us to throw our handiwork in the trash…”

(“The Mother’s Day gifts?” Rita asks, horrified. She’s just spent every dirham she received from the family at Aid al Adha on a birthday present for her mom.)

“Yes, it was awful. A few of the girls started to cry. The children went home empty-handed that afternoon, with no gifts to offer their mothers on Sunday.”

(Rita’s mom is calling us for lunch, but she’s riveted.)

“But, you know what? At the end of that day, I wasn’t the only one who went home sad. All the kids told their parents what happened. The following Monday, the Principal made Miss Milana apologize to the class. We got back our purses and finished them for our moms. And the next fall, Miss Milana wasn’t teaching in our school any more.”

Rita lets out a sigh. As I take her hand and lead her to the dining room, I tell her that most, if not all, of her teachers will be loving, caring individuals. But unfortunately, over the years she may meet up with one or two who seem like they don’t really like children or teaching and who’ll make life miserable for her. There’s a thin smile on Rita’s lips though. I can tell she’s hoping Mademoiselle M will mess up so badly one day, she’ll be banished just the way Miss Milana was. And I know this was the right story to tell.