Because I hated school. With a passion. People say they are the best years of your life; I still disagree. I was an angry, self loathing whirlpool of emotions as a teenager (sometimes I fear not a lot has changed since then). The world was against me; life was unfair. I wanted nothing more than to travel the world and be a photographer and writer for National Geographic. Anything that didn't directly lead me down that path was irrelevant minutia and therefore not worth my time.
I enjoyed learning about art and photography - the theory and history as well as the practical - as I thrived and excelled in such a creative environment. I enjoyed German to an extent as I could see it as a means to an end of travelling Europe and thus being endlessly cool and carefree. I hated English.
While I read to the detriment of all else (to the point of having books confiscated) and thoroughly enjoyed the enchanting worlds of words enclosed between unassuming covers, I found that not once were any of the sorts of books I even remotely enjoyed prescribed for the school curriculum. No, the dreary books prescribed were always depressing stories where at least one person died and some sort of moral yet painful lesson was learned by those surrounding the now deceased. And not only were these dreadful books required reading, we then had to analyse them! Why couldn't you simply read a book and enjoy the damn thing? Why did we have to explore the dark and depressing themes of racial prejudice or suicide? I can see now that these are globally important themes for society as a whole to explore (if only they did), however I do not once remember any English teacher (even my favourite Mr C) telling me that the point of English as a subject is to learn how to think, how to make up your own mind, how to figure the world out, in every aspect of life, not just in the classroom.
So now, in my final (thank all the gods) year at uni, thinking about and discussing strategies for student engagement all while covering the curriculum and meeting the thousand and one other requirements of a teacher, I am thrust back down memory lane to my tumultuous high school experience. It doesn't help that I am finding that the conflicting emotions that plagued me as a teenager are at times coming back to haunt me. I still believe the entire education system is flawed. I no longer wish to the play the game that is pandering to the academic rigours of university. I know that my final mark still depends on whether I can write a coherent essay which will prove nothing as to my actual teaching ability. I also know that this massive political tangle of curriculum, pedagogy and day-to-day teaching will still only get me one step forward for every three that I take. And that I will encounter many, many students with attitudes like my own who will bluntly refuse to engage in any class, no matter what course of action I take; knowing I was not the only angry, disenchanted teenager at school I wonder exactly how I will manage to teach my poor students anything at all.
And yet, I am still here. Stubbornly refusing to let university get the better of me. I have to constantly remind myself that the reasons I wanted to be a teacher in the first place have not changed. I chose to become an English teacher and not an art or photography teacher because I wanted to reach more people. I wanted to be able to tell them that the number you get at the end of your school career does not define who you are, or who you will become; that school success, failure or mediocrity does not mean that you are or will always be a success, failure or mediocrity.
I have to reming myself that in four years at university I have not changed my initial idealistic principles: make it relevant and (to achieve that) get to know your students. For me so much of school was irrelevant and I feel like that was largely due to the fact that the vast majority of my teachers didn't care one jot about me as a person - because for them, I wasn't a person. I need to remember that as I go into my first week of full time placement in two weeks time; that my students are people and that by getting to know them I will then be able to make school relevant.
At least sometimes. Maybe.
I enjoyed learning about art and photography - the theory and history as well as the practical - as I thrived and excelled in such a creative environment. I enjoyed German to an extent as I could see it as a means to an end of travelling Europe and thus being endlessly cool and carefree. I hated English.
While I read to the detriment of all else (to the point of having books confiscated) and thoroughly enjoyed the enchanting worlds of words enclosed between unassuming covers, I found that not once were any of the sorts of books I even remotely enjoyed prescribed for the school curriculum. No, the dreary books prescribed were always depressing stories where at least one person died and some sort of moral yet painful lesson was learned by those surrounding the now deceased. And not only were these dreadful books required reading, we then had to analyse them! Why couldn't you simply read a book and enjoy the damn thing? Why did we have to explore the dark and depressing themes of racial prejudice or suicide? I can see now that these are globally important themes for society as a whole to explore (if only they did), however I do not once remember any English teacher (even my favourite Mr C) telling me that the point of English as a subject is to learn how to think, how to make up your own mind, how to figure the world out, in every aspect of life, not just in the classroom.
So now, in my final (thank all the gods) year at uni, thinking about and discussing strategies for student engagement all while covering the curriculum and meeting the thousand and one other requirements of a teacher, I am thrust back down memory lane to my tumultuous high school experience. It doesn't help that I am finding that the conflicting emotions that plagued me as a teenager are at times coming back to haunt me. I still believe the entire education system is flawed. I no longer wish to the play the game that is pandering to the academic rigours of university. I know that my final mark still depends on whether I can write a coherent essay which will prove nothing as to my actual teaching ability. I also know that this massive political tangle of curriculum, pedagogy and day-to-day teaching will still only get me one step forward for every three that I take. And that I will encounter many, many students with attitudes like my own who will bluntly refuse to engage in any class, no matter what course of action I take; knowing I was not the only angry, disenchanted teenager at school I wonder exactly how I will manage to teach my poor students anything at all.
And yet, I am still here. Stubbornly refusing to let university get the better of me. I have to constantly remind myself that the reasons I wanted to be a teacher in the first place have not changed. I chose to become an English teacher and not an art or photography teacher because I wanted to reach more people. I wanted to be able to tell them that the number you get at the end of your school career does not define who you are, or who you will become; that school success, failure or mediocrity does not mean that you are or will always be a success, failure or mediocrity.
I have to reming myself that in four years at university I have not changed my initial idealistic principles: make it relevant and (to achieve that) get to know your students. For me so much of school was irrelevant and I feel like that was largely due to the fact that the vast majority of my teachers didn't care one jot about me as a person - because for them, I wasn't a person. I need to remember that as I go into my first week of full time placement in two weeks time; that my students are people and that by getting to know them I will then be able to make school relevant.
At least sometimes. Maybe.
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