Treading Water the First Year

The first year of teaching is, almost literally, sink or swim. Sometimes it feels like you’re doing both at the same time. At least I had yet to start coaching. I really think first year teachers should not have any extra duties (and should, and, in fact, should have a reduced workload), but I get that in some ways it would more of a punishment than a protection. I had never taught English before, although, lucky for me, Professor Bernetta Jackson, in one of the summer classes I took in 1971 to gain certification, ditched her curriculum and worked with me on the teaching of English.

So I’m going to blame/credit her when, in the 82-83 school year, I took a very gifted group of sophomores (Class of '85) and, with their consent, turned French II into the school newspaper. (Try getting away with that today! I contend they benefitted far more than slogging through French grammar that none would ever use again.) In any case, that group eventually won what I consider to be Hancock’s first state championship, an All-Missouri rating for The Growler from MIPA*. The only other St. Louis area school to earn that award in 1985 was the Kirkwood Call, a program which even today represents the gold standard of high school journalism. Kind of like the New England Patriots, except they don’t cheat.

Although in theory I had three sections of freshman English that first year, they were three different preps (differentiation hadn’t been invented yet, but while the jargon didn’t exist, even a rookie knew the kids had different needs). So I was trying to prepare for, and grade papers from, five different classes in a subject area foreign to me. Yes, one of them was French.

You quickly invent coping tactics. My wife helped grade the spelling on vocabulary, but I still felt like I was treading water, trying to stay afloat. I now admit that (at least) one tactic I employed (just once) that year was kind of underhanded. In my defense, I’m reading stories and other content for the first time, just like the kids. One morning I hadn’t had time to read the assigned short story (or essay, or whatever) before class started. I did have time to quickly grab a couple obscure details on which I could quiz the class. Of course no one could answer my questions.

Apparently, according to several formers at class reunions throughout the years, I was a lot more, uh, intense in my first couple decades than I was at the end. I went into Tony Award mode (it was a live performance, after all). I slammed the book on the desk and thundered, “If you people won’t do your homework, this is just a waste of time. Now get your books out and read this story right now!” I always remembered that lesson, and tried to also remember that there are all sorts of (legitimate) reasons kids don’t get their homework done.

Karma is a funny thing. A few years later I was teaching a class in Business Law that I inherited from the late Jim (father of Cardinal broadcaster Dan) McLaughlin. I knew nothing about business or law, but this time was at least staying a chapter ahead of the kids. Unfortunately, in my class was possibly the smartest student I had the privilege to teach (at least in the Top 10). I won’t name him, but his mother, one of the sweetest women ever, worked in the superintendent’s office and was in a walking club that I often saw in my neighborhood. He knew exactly what I was doing, and, almost daily, with a sly grin and twinkling eyes, asked me a question that I couldn’t answer, from 2-3 chapters ahead. After the first time or two, I just smiled back to let him know that I knew that he knew. He took pity on me after a couple weeks.

I did crawl ashore that June of '72, gasping for breath, completely exhausted. I turned down a request to get involved in the teachers association. I spent the next couple months lying in the sun at the apartment complex pool, trying to recharge my batteries, although solar power was still a few years away. I stayed out of the water.

*Missouri Interscholastic Press Association