Thursday, November 6, 2008



Needlepoint was a Class on its own

~ an anecdote from my teaching life ~
Drawing & Photo
By:

Füsun Atalay ~ Copyright © 2004


Bringing humour to the classroom helps to deal with young people.

Before we realize it, the school year comes to a screeching halt each spring. Prior to the last day, there are the moments many of us haggard and worn-out teachers await. We cross out the days on the school calendar, subtracting the weekends and greeting each other with numbers.

"Only 20 more to go,"

"May's out, just 14 more teaching days,"

or

"This is the last Day 7 of the year," and so on.

But, as melancholic as I feel every year at that time - realizing that one more year from my life is spent, gone, lost forever - I dwell on the positive that it is summer and I will have six weeks to do something totally different and enriching which, hopefully, I will incorporate into my teaching come September.
Not a paid vacation

Summers are not a period of paid vacation for teachers as many people think. First of all, as irrelevant to this piece as it may be, our contracts are based on 10 months of teaching and the pay is stretched out to 12 months so that we don't starve while we are technically unemployed, yet do not qualify for employment-insurance benefits.

Many of us attend courses, catch up on our reading and writing, and attend to health issues to rejuvenate, recuperate and mend our mortal (and sometimes mental) wounds for another year of teaching and educating youth.

As adults, we do grow at an incredible rate of wear and tear - one of the increasing hazards of our profession - but as teachers we make up for that by staying young in spirit.
After all, not many professions outside of teaching get to spend the majority of their days with children and teens. Naturally, this closeness to young people year after year makes an accurate yardstick to note how the youth have changed over decades of teaching.
Humour makes a difference

I have come to acknowledge that what keeps me young and in charge of my sanity is the humour I bring into, and also observe, in my daily classroom situations.

When I retire, I hope to write a book based on my teaching anecdotes. Not only would it be a legacy to my son and daughter, but it might even make a good read for future teacher trainees.

As I look back on last year, many class memories return to me. Some are hilarious, others more subtle, and yet some are actual pearls of wisdom captured in memory.

Following is a recent anecdote, one which still makes me smile at its remembrance.

About 40 minutes into my needlepoint class, a sweet, red-haired, pixie-like girl got up from her chair and swooned over to my desk as if she were walking on clouds. She drawled, "Miss ...?"

I was helping another youngster untangle a giant knot she'd managed to tie with her metre-long yarn, so I couldn't answer the red-haired student right away. But, as soon as we untangled the messy knot, I turned to the red-haired girl.

"Yes. What were you going to ask?"

She paused for a few seconds and replied, "I forgot. It always happens to me."

I tried to jolt her memory.

"Did you lose your needle?"
"No, it's right here," she said, holding out her canvas with a half-embroidered Piglet design on it.

"Were you going to ask for a pair of scissors?" I continued.

"I don't think so," she replied.

"Yarn?"

"Nope."

Noticing the way she was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, I inquired, "You weren't going to ask to go to the washroom, were you?"

"Oh, yah ! . Can I go, please?"

Regretful that I might have planted an idea she didn't have before, I replied, "Hmmm. You couldn't have forgotten something like that. Your bladder would've reminded you."

The girl whose knot was just undone jumped in "Miss, she's an only child."

I was puzzled at first and could not make the connection. But I soon realized the failure in communication.

"No, b-l-a-d-d-e-r, not brother," I explained.

The red-haired was quick with a reply.

"I don't have one. I sh-wear," breaking the word into two syllables.

"Everyone has a bladder," I continued.

"Huh?" Brief pause. "What's that?"

"Well ... That's a little pouch which holds your ..."

Before I could complete my sentence, the red-haired girl stormed out of the room saying, "I can't wait to hold anything, Miss. I've got to go to the washroom."

So much for teaching life skills. Or vocabulary — for that matter.

Copyrighted Material. All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay Copyright © 2004
Submitted to 2007 PWAC Barbara Novak Humor Award Competition

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