I've tried to start a few entries, but they aren't focused. But I have one thing I simply must write.
On Wednesday, I gave a presentation of my research to the Fulton staff. It went alright. Most people commented about how they enjoyed the few jokes I told, a grim reminder of my fears of being a mere entertainer. But that's as much their apathy as me not being more than wit. I wasn't particularly good at articulating my research (I so rarely am under time constraints), but I did manage to stress the importance of relationships over academics in teaching. That was my most significant finding, and I think it'll mean more to me than most of the other lessons I've learned (more on that later, probably).
But little did I know that Mr. Petko, my high school Algebra II teacher, the man who had inspired me to teach, to be more than an apathetic teenager, to care, was in the audience watching. He's now moved on to supervising the county's math teachers, and lest I make him out to be the end all be all, he wasn't. He was the man who taught me the value of enthusiasm, the infectious nature of passion, the extent to which a person can care about something and have that passion transfer to others. He was the beginning of my queer brand of extroversion, my life as performance. He brought something out of me that no one had before. Of course, he was conservative, passive-aggressive, often bordering on fake in his Andy Griffith joviality. He was a good man, though, and he gave me something invaluable.
He talked to me afterwards and told me he agreed with me. He hadn't remembered any of his math teachers, yet he went on to teach math. And he said that he remembers a time where his family couldn't pay the utilities and was just trying to survive, a time (during high school) when he justifiably so wouldn't have cared much for school. But people at school cared for him, and that's what mattered. And I told him that I didn't remember much Algebra. I do, but it's not really helped me much. I do, however, remember him and his enthusiasm. What he did for me was more than almost every other teacher did. No other teacher affected my personality so much. Ms. Jackson taught me to write, yes, and she has her place in the pantheon. But Mr. Petko, in an odd way, taught me to care.
Yes, it's possible that I could become that sort of teacher. But when the academics seem notably secondary (pardon the pun), I'd much rather pursue a career where I can focus on those emotional and personal changes that do matter. Emotional support is the cornerstone of connection and growth, and that's what I want. I have learned that teaching, even if it's taken me awhile to reconcile that with my feelings of inadequacy. I have learned that, though, and it is a lesson I don't want myself to forget. Life's so much better when you care about who you are, what you do, and all of the things in between. I think I'm getting closer to that. So thank you, Mr. Petko. And thank you teaching. I'll be glad to go, but I don't regret having been there while I was.
On Wednesday, I gave a presentation of my research to the Fulton staff. It went alright. Most people commented about how they enjoyed the few jokes I told, a grim reminder of my fears of being a mere entertainer. But that's as much their apathy as me not being more than wit. I wasn't particularly good at articulating my research (I so rarely am under time constraints), but I did manage to stress the importance of relationships over academics in teaching. That was my most significant finding, and I think it'll mean more to me than most of the other lessons I've learned (more on that later, probably).
But little did I know that Mr. Petko, my high school Algebra II teacher, the man who had inspired me to teach, to be more than an apathetic teenager, to care, was in the audience watching. He's now moved on to supervising the county's math teachers, and lest I make him out to be the end all be all, he wasn't. He was the man who taught me the value of enthusiasm, the infectious nature of passion, the extent to which a person can care about something and have that passion transfer to others. He was the beginning of my queer brand of extroversion, my life as performance. He brought something out of me that no one had before. Of course, he was conservative, passive-aggressive, often bordering on fake in his Andy Griffith joviality. He was a good man, though, and he gave me something invaluable.
He talked to me afterwards and told me he agreed with me. He hadn't remembered any of his math teachers, yet he went on to teach math. And he said that he remembers a time where his family couldn't pay the utilities and was just trying to survive, a time (during high school) when he justifiably so wouldn't have cared much for school. But people at school cared for him, and that's what mattered. And I told him that I didn't remember much Algebra. I do, but it's not really helped me much. I do, however, remember him and his enthusiasm. What he did for me was more than almost every other teacher did. No other teacher affected my personality so much. Ms. Jackson taught me to write, yes, and she has her place in the pantheon. But Mr. Petko, in an odd way, taught me to care.
Yes, it's possible that I could become that sort of teacher. But when the academics seem notably secondary (pardon the pun), I'd much rather pursue a career where I can focus on those emotional and personal changes that do matter. Emotional support is the cornerstone of connection and growth, and that's what I want. I have learned that teaching, even if it's taken me awhile to reconcile that with my feelings of inadequacy. I have learned that, though, and it is a lesson I don't want myself to forget. Life's so much better when you care about who you are, what you do, and all of the things in between. I think I'm getting closer to that. So thank you, Mr. Petko. And thank you teaching. I'll be glad to go, but I don't regret having been there while I was.
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