Teaching The Teacher

Today, I taught one of my teachers.

In my classroom was a man I remember from my college days, when I was just a young, morbidly depressed, chap about town. I took a couple of courses from him years and years ago, though being 100+ student auditorium style classes, I doubt he'd ever remember. Those were rambunctious days, involving a lot of sleeping in and not attending classes. I certainly wasn't the pseudo-responsible educator extraordinaire that I am today. So, it was a bit of a shock to be the one in front of the classroom dolling out the information.

One might think that having a former teacher sit in your classroom and bounce to your rules would be one of the coolest things ever. was looking forward to the idea. Here was a guy who had barked a lot of unnecessary information in the name of filling up time, and threatened my life, limb, and GPA, all because it was "his classroom." Well not any more buddy.

I'm a big boy now, and you're in my classroom. You're gonna dance in my show and when I say, "do a fucking high kick," you're gonna do a fucking high kick. And you'll love every second I boss you around because I am the shit, and you need me to survive baby!

At least I think that's how it's gonna play out. The reality of how my class went down was far stranger.

Back when he was the master, he stood tall, had a great speaking voice, and gave the presence of someone who lived and breathed his craft. The man in my classroom today had been heavily diminished by time since last I saw him. His lanky height now curving into an arch in his back, the voice constricted and raspy. And any presence he gave over what he taught and how well he knew it was gone. He had the look of a man who knew full well he was being ravaged by the ages.

He looked on me and my materials with shaky eyes, constantly concerned about missing some critical tool or some vital information that would put him behind the rest of the class. He asked questions, lots of questions about content, that I as an instructor knew was unnecessary.

I couldn't help but feel bad for the old guy. So, I did what many instructors have done before me: I answered them as thoughtfully and honestly as I could, trying to be reassuring to this poor man. In everything I said and did, I was trying to subconsciously tell him, "It's okay man. I'll get you through this."

It's an interesting experience to be looking through both sides of the mirror at once. In some ways I kind of understood where he had come from when it was his class and his rules. The droning on and on with keywords and lengthy lectures, the distracted look he got whenever someone interrupted his flow with some obvious question, it all makes sense to me. I understand why he did it, hell I know for a fact I do it too. And while I won't go so far to say that this man was in any way a mentor to me, that helped shaped the great teaching machine who's writing this, I will acknowledge that he did help mentally cement the process by which one governs in a classroom.

The next time I step into my classroom and sit at my desk, I will most likely continue on as I've always continued. I will talk for too long about too many things, I'll stumble on my words trying to maintain some kind of verbal rhythm. I'll wisecrack and smart-ass any ridiculous content on my list and I will continue to get irritated when a hand is raised to ask a question that ruins my train of thought. But in the back of my mind, I suppose I'll always acknowledge that old teacher, realizing that I once was where he is now. And that what I have to say and show carries a bit of weight.