Third Floor Classroom, Wikimedia Commons

I have no cohesive memories before eighth grade—only bits and pieces of memory.

They come as fragments—fragments of fights, fragments of school lunch, and fragments of classroom horse-play.  During eighth grade and high school, I remember much, but just not about the classroom.  I enjoyed math and did well.  During my high school career, I had only two math teachers and one of them for only one year. I learned from him and never had trouble understanding.  It puzzled me when my classmates did not understand derivatives and integrals.  I always thought that if they had so much trouble with calculus, then why take the class—by that time it was not required for graduation.  I did okay in science, but did not like it.  My teachers were stuffy and bored, nearing retirement or bitter or a bit crazed.  Chemistry was fun, but only because it came easily to me.  History interested me, but not the way my history teachers taught it.  Government was a joke with a teacher there only to keep us busy and collect his paycheck as he lorded his power over the seniors as since the only teacher who taught a class required for graduation.  Okay, maybe I exaggerate, a little, but that realization comes from years of hindsight.  At the time, I felt that way and resented him for it.  I still don’t remember much from Government other than boredom and how angry he could get.  Boredom seems to be the theme—that and dread.[…Read More…]

Why I Became a Teacher was originally posted on The Fake Italian.