In 1974, after filling out fifty applications, going through four interviews, and winning one offer, I took what I could get — a teaching job at what I considered a distant wild area: western New Jersey. My characteristic optimism was alive only when I reminded myself that I would be doing what I had wanted to do since I was fourteen — teaching English.
School started, I was teaching English. I worked hard, taking time off only to eat and sleep. And then there was my sixth grade class who were only six years younger than me. I had a problem long before I knew it. I was struggling in my work as a young idealistic teacher. I wanted to make literature come alive and to promote a love of the written word. The students wanted to throw spitballs and whisper dirty words in the back of the room.
In college I had been taught that a successful educator should ignore bad behavior. So I did, confident that, the bad behavior would disappear as I gave my students positive attention. But in fact, humans particularly teenagers rarely seem reasonable. By the time my boss, who was also my taskmaster, known to be the strictest, most demanding, quickest to fire inexperienced teachers, came into the classroom to observe me, the students exhibited very little good behavior.
My boss sat in the back of the room. The boys in the class were making animal noises, hitting each other while the girls filed their nails or read magazines. I just pretended it all wasn't happening, and went on lecturing and tried to ask some inspiring questions. My boss, sitting in the back of room, seemed to be growing angrier and angrier. After twenty minutes he left, silently. Visions of unemployment marched before my eyes.
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After class, I took a deep breath and walked into his office.
Fifteen years later, I still drive that winding road to the same school.
