16 minute read
SCHOOL by Angela Patera WELL DONE! Non-fiction
SCHOOL by Angela Patera
Ι sit at my desk at work, determined to grade all the tests before the lessons commence. I reach for the first one in the stack - Mike’s test. Knowing him as a meticulous student, I allow myself a moment of relief; this should be an easy one to correct, perhaps with a few hurried errors towards the end. In university, we were taught to grade blindly to prevent our preconceived notions about a certain student from affecting our sense of judgment. There’s no point in correcting blindly; I am unable to escape familiarity. I know my students’ handwriting all too well. Thoughts of Mike’s strawberry-blonde hair, oversized glasses, and big blue eyes come to mind. He used to be the teacher’s pet, but now, in ninth grade, it seems that puberty has taken its toll. However, as I begin to read, something unsettling catches my eye… Oh no!
Each page bears an intricate penis drawing in the lower right corner. On the first page, it’s just a lonely penis, rendered with exquisite detail. As I turn to the second page, the penis looks erect and it is accompanied by a full set of testicles, all captured with impressive precision. The third and final page reveals an enlarged image of the aforementioned penis, sporting a contented smile. This transcends mere doodling; it’s a genuine work of art, executed with extraordinary attention to detail. Traces of careful erasure and revision attest to Mike’s unwavering commitment to achieving a striking level of realism.
I am utterly mortified. Although I have encountered a fair share of mischievous sketches over the years, Mike’s behavior appears entirely inconsistent with the typical phallus-doodler. Nearly two decades ago, upon my initial encounter with such drawings, my response was urgent and decisive: immediately involving the Headmaster, convening a teacher’s meeting, contacting parents, and inadvertently blowing the matter out of proportion. I perceived that incident as a manifestation of sexism, a glimpse into a troubled teenager’s psyche, a burgeoning man’s attempt to assert his masculinity fuelled by an inexplicable fear of castration. I thought he was employing provocative art to propagate a phallic ideology, establish dominance over the class and symbolically stake his claim, akin to a dog marking his territory.
As the years passed, phallic depictions began to proliferate within the language school’s walls. I encountered numerous sketches reminiscent of the initial one, and over time, I came to realize that whenever a dick graces a piece of paper addressed to a teacher, it carries a singular message—a poignant cry for help, a desperate plea for attention. It screams “Reprimand me, punish me, discipline me—do whatever it takes, for I am in dire need of your attention”.
For nearly two decades, I’ve dedicated my life to teaching English as a Second Language, a path I never initially planned to tread. Teaching at a language school marked my serendipitous introduction to the realm of education. It all began when I was a junior English Language and Literature student at Greece’s most esteemed university. The day we were asked to select our first semester courses, I found myself nursing a formidable hangover. Clad in an all-black ensemble and sporting oversized sunglasses, I filled out the registration form with subjects I barely recognized: Introduction to Linguistics; ELT Theory; Discourse Analysis; Education Psychology and Error Analysis. They sounded wholly unfamiliar, almost exotic. Unbeknownst to me, some inexplicable cosmic thread was already weaving me into my future career.
Truth be told, at that point, I hadn’t given much thought to my career prospects. Still navigating my somewhat sheltered late adolescence, my primary concern was securing a job that would sustain my desired lifestyle—paying bills, attending as many concerts as possible, and affording the coveted Doc Martens I yearned for.
As I slowly meandered my way home from university that day, a compelling advertisement pinned outside a Language School caught my eye: “ESL interns wanted”. The cosmic thread had evolved into an irresistible force, pulling me inexorably closer to my destiny. Until that very moment, the notion of teaching had never crossed my mind. I had always been a shy, reticent individual, feeling more at ease with the companionship of books, the solace of concerts, and the contemplative solitude of art galleries.
Challenged by the universe and propelled by the boundless naiveté of youth, I ventured inside the Language School, hoping that my crisp accent, sharp all-black attire, and the hastily consumed 1000mg of ibuprofen would somehow bestow upon me an air of sophistication, if not an intriguing touch of peculiarity. My first task was to undergo an English proficiency test, a measure of my language mastery. Alone in a quiet room, sunglasses shielding my throbbing head from the intrusive fluorescent lights, I filled the blanks effortlessly. Afterwards, I sought refuge in a quiet waiting room, making a beeline for the vending machine. There, I downed two cups of scalding hot, frothy cappuccino, accompanied by two more ibuprofen pills and three mints. Thankfully, the ensuing interview was brief, a welcome relief as my head still pounded, and my stomach churned with discomfort. They hired me on the spot thanks to my impressive high school grades and a teaching license I had obtained during the previous summer at my mum’s suggestion, “just in case”. The salary, while not extravagant, generously met my modest needs. The convenience was undeniable: located near the train station, the language school’s operation hours from 3 p.m. until 10 p.m. harmoniously aligned with my morning university classes. As the clock ticked to the end of my shift, I could easily board the train and head to one of the countless concerts that had become my foremost passion during that period.
My responsibilities at the language school revolved around teaching three advanced-level classes, primarily composed of teenage boys gearing up for their impending English exams. The Headmaster emphasized that my instruction should be laser-focused on exam preparation. My creativity extended as far as ensuring those young and somewhat delinquent gentlemen successfully passed their exams. It was obvious that these classes had been assigned to me because they had been deemed undesirable by all the others. In the midst of my post-concert, hangover-fueled haze, I couldn’t help but nurture a sense of pride and determination, envisioning myself confidently waltzing inside the classroom, exuding an aura of coolness and defiance, akin to a brunette incarnation of Michelle Pfeiffer in “Dangerous Minds”.
My initial enthusiasm morphed into anxiety as I realized that, despite my meticulously crafted lessons, I was no Michelle Pfeiffer. To make matters worse, all of the students were just a couple of years my junior, attending the very same high school I once did. Familiar faces met my gaze; most belonged to the school’s jocks and bullies, perpetually ready for mischief. This realization stirred a poignant blend of melancholy and unwavering determination.
The peculiar aspect that struck me on the first day in the classroom was my students’ conspicuous lack of engagement. They seemed disinterested in virtually everything, no matter how captivating I attempted to be. I could have set myself alight during the lesson and they wouldn’t have noticed. In response, I delved into my teaching materials, assiduously studying textbooks on instructing exam preparation classes, scouring all the relevant websites, and seeking guidance from chat rooms and forums.
My determination to succeed remained unwavering. I maintained a strict, professional demeanor, prioritizing their success in the upcoming exams. My lessons were meticulously structured- compact and rich in content. I didn’t allow these boys a moment’s respite; the focus remained unswervingly exam-oriented. Soon, I began to realize that even those seemingly indifferent high school boys longed for something more—a chance for extracurricular conversation, a dose of attention, a sprinkle of enjoyment. Regrettably, I misinterpreted these gestures as attempts to waste time. I didn’t want to hear what they had to say; I had timed the lessons down to the very last second. I couldn’t waste any time. Despite my obviously flawed technique and misguided objectives, the results were remarkable: out of my 40 students, an impressive 35 passed their exams with distinction.
During my second year as an ESL teacher, an unforeseen twist of fate rattled my world. I was carefully grading essays in the teacher’s room when the headmaster’s urgent summons to his office sent my heart sinking. I was convinced I was about to get sacked.
At that point, I had already been grappling with a challenging phase in my life. It had all begun with the sudden and untimely loss of my best friend. His death broke my heart, leaving me desolate and aimless. In an attempt to distract myself from the grief, I enrolled in demanding university courses, hoping that classes and challenging projects would somehow keep me occupied. To my terror, barely a month into the semester, a university professors’ strike brought all classes to a halt. Initially deemed a brief disruption, as three months passed, restlessness began to consume me. Sometime during those months of restlessness and mourning, I mustered the courage to extricate myself from a traumatic relationship that had ensnared me for far too long. Although I felt relieved, I found myself more disoriented than ever. I was feeling so desperate and overwhelmed that all I wanted to do was cocoon myself at home and smoke pot all day, escaping into a haze of smoke and indifference. What truly kept me afloat during that trying period was my job. Regardless of my inner turmoil, I diligently prepared teaching materials, graded countless essays and tests, showered, got dressed, and showed up at work at 3 p.m. every day looking clean, sober, and alert. Therefore, when summoned to the headmaster’s office, panic surged within me. I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.
As I walked into his office, he lifted his head and fixed a silent gaze upon me. Doubts swirled within my mind. Had I made a grave error? Been overly stern? Unwittingly mistreated a student? Lost in contemplation, I failed to notice the Headmaster addressing me. It was only when he extended a piece of paper for me to sign that I snapped back to attention. Feeling too embarrassed to request a repetition of his words, I swiftly scanned the text. The offer was a full-time position as a permanent member of the staff. My heart skipped a beat. I swiftly signed the form, unable to conceal both my broad smile and the tears that welled up in my eyes.
I adhered rigorously to the same inflexible technique across all of my classes. It yielded amazing results. However, a persistent feeling of something amiss gnawed at me, elusive yet undeniable. I struggled to identify the source of my discontent. Despite my meticulously organized lessons, abundant authentic supplementary material, and exam-oriented tests, a lingering dissatisfaction with my overall teaching approach persisted.
To untangle this puzzle, I drew to my own student experiences marked by stellar performance but profound unhappiness. The disquieting realization dawned that I had inadvertently fallen into the same patterns as my high school teachers. They had viewed me merely as a name paired with a high grade. They were indifferent to my personality, interests, and concerns. Deep down, I recognized that effective teaching should prioritize pedagogy over methodology, focusing on the learner as a whole rather than their learning profile. Yet, I struggled with effectively translating this insight into practice within the strict confines of the lesson’s structure.
The tragic events of December 6th, 2008 profoundly reshaped my teaching philosophy and overall perspective. On that fateful day, 15-year-old student Alex Grigoropoulos tragically lost his life at the hands of a police officer in the heart of Athens. This incident ignited a cascade of demonstrations and protests, coinciding with violent riots that scarred the already beleaguered city center. This incident marked the culmination of months of underlying problems, including skyrocketing inflation, surging unemployment rates, a rapid rise in drug addiction, a disheartening increase in suicide rates, and the alarming emergence of extreme right-wing ideologies.
This was a pivotal turning point, compelling me to reevaluate my approach towards education and my role as an educator. How could I not engage my students in discussions about racism, sexism, or depression? How could I, with a clear conscience, walk inside my classroom and continue teaching grammatical structures, without addressing these urgent issues? It became abundantly clear to me that I couldn’t confine my teaching solely to exam prep. My students deserved more—they deserved to be informed about the world around them.
What my students truly needed was a different kind of education—an approach that was student-driven, emotionally charged, thought-provoking, and interdisciplinary in nature. Harnessing the power of art, music, literature, video games, and all sorts of cultural exposure could be instrumental in this endeavor. They needed opportunities for “meaningful conversations” that would encourage them to explore the complexities of the real world. It became crystal clear that my role as a teacher had to evolve to meet these pressing needs, preparing my students for the realities of a world they were poised to inherit.
The concept of “meaningful conversation” swiftly became an indispensable element in my classes. I approached it with utmost precision, adhering to strict time constraints and carefully crafting my words to adjust every notion to the appropriate age group. My goal was to practice English while maintaining conversations that were respectful, non-dogmatic, and harmonious. What struck me profoundly was the plethora of anxieties concealed beneath the seemingly nonchalant and fashionable façade of most of my students. Some fretted over body image issues while others admitted to a loss of control over their alcohol and drug consumption. Shockingly, many students revealed bullying experiences they had endured at some point in their lives. It was a revelation that truly opened my eyes to the psychological underbelly of my classes.
Reflecting on my own educational journey, from kindergarten through high school, I couldn’t recall any teacher genuinely paying attention to me. As a high-achieving student from a well-educated and liberal background, my inner struggles, occasional defiance, penchant for challenging authority, bouts of depression, and evident eating disorders, were all too easily dismissed as “just a phase” as long as my academic performance remained strong. I yearned to change that narrative, aspiring to find a new approach to education and student well-being.
Of course, I remained acutely aware of my limitations. I lacked the credentials of a doctor or a psychologist and, at the age of 22, the expertise required for professional counseling. Undoubtedly, the primary focus of my classes remained centered on exam preparation, as my job security depended on it. I recognized the boundaries of my knowledge and experience as well as the time constraints imposed by my schedule. However, within those limits, I could offer alternatives: a wealth of reading materials and thought-provoking film recommendations; diligently researched helplines staffed by specialists in assisting young people dealing with issues like addiction or depression; and a network of trusted specialists, including pediatricians and child psychologists.
Despite being just an ESL teacher, I felt a duty to lend a sympathetic ear and a supportive shoulder. Over time, I couldn’t help but notice the significant impact that the five-minute “meaningful conversation” had on my students’ engagement and the overall classroom dynamics. I derived immense satisfaction from this influence. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much more I could do to further enrich the educational experience.
A few years later, an unexpected event profoundly reshaped my teaching approach: motherhood. This transition forged a reciprocal connection, turning teaching into my sanctuary amid the challenges of perinatal depression. It bridged my evolving identity as a mother with the person I had always been. Within the classroom confines, I could momentarily escape the shroud of anxiety that often engulfed me. Once again, regardless of my personal turmoil, I had to show up at 3 p.m. every day, looking fresh and composed. Inside the classroom, I played the role of “in loco parentis” but I was not a parent; I remained a teacher.
Returning to the classroom as a mother also informed my teaching approach. As my daughter developed her unique personality and embarked on her educational journey, I recognized a symbiotic relationship forming between motherhood and teaching. Motherhood infused me with greater compassion, patience, and tolerance. My attention to detail sharpened, enabling me to discern subtleties that might have eluded me before. It became clear that my lessons needed to cater to the entire class while simultaneously accommodating the distinctive pace and learning style of each student. Even in the competitive realm of exam preparation, I recognized that all the students shared the same destination, yet, it was my duty to assist them in shaping their individual journey toward that goal.
As I complete the arduous task of grading tests, I allow myself a moment to exhale, mentally gearing up for the upcoming lesson. The chatter of my students' voices seeps in through the open window. They seem to be engaged in a spirited discussion about football. Keeping pace with the constantly shifting landscape of football teams and player contracts has never been my strong suit. Lost in contemplation, I am abruptly jolted by the eruption of an irate voice:
-Suck my dick!
-Fuck you!
-You’re so fucking gay!
I roll my eyes and sigh disapprovingly as I’m once again reminded of the familiar, persistent soundtrack that accompanies my daily routine. Despite my repeated emphasis on the importance of refraining from using terms like “gay” or “lesbian” as derogatory insults, it seems that the message hasn’t quite taken root with my students. I contemplate whether it’s time for me to intervene, perhaps yell from the window and beckon them to the classroom for a substantial lecture on the fundamental principles of politeness and respect. Just as I am weighing this decision, one of the boys raises his voice above the others:
-You shouldn’t call him “gay”, you fucking idiot. It’s not a bad thing to be gay; call him a “jerk”, that’s what he is, a fucking little jerk!
That marks a personal triumph. While I acknowledge that my teaching approach is far from flawless and there are still countless lingering issues to address, I take solace in the knowledge that my students have gleaned something valuable from our journey together. There is still something amiss and I am resolutely committed to finding the solution.
