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

Halls of Hancock, Year 1: The LA Gang

That year, 1971, saw a brand new English department at Hancock High School. Bill Blake, with his single year at Hancock, was the lone holdover. I was joined by Debbie Strouth (Weissflug), Cheryl Berry, and Joyce Pfaff (who, I think, had done some subbing in Hancock the year previous). If I recall correctly, none of us had done our student teaching in English.  Debbie was a speech/drama person, Cheryl, Spanish, and Joyce (maybe German?). I had student taught world history at McCluer (to sophomores on the evening shift, noon-6:30 p.m., as Ferg-Flor was building McCluer North), where the social studies building was larger than Hancock High School).

During our NKOTB Orientation (arcane boy-band reference for my daughter), Principal Eichhorst took us upstairs to the well-heated book room. Pointing to a wall of literature and grammar books, he said, “Here are your books,” and quickly retreated to his office. Thanks to the different colored stripes and covers it was obvious that there were various levels, but none of the books were labeled as to which grade they were intended to serve. Working as a team, not for the last time, we finally figured out which books went with which grades. Well, at least I think we got it right.

Curriculum? Hey, we had books, both literature and grammar. Anything else, well, for better and worse, we were on our own. I don’t remember any Teachers’ Guides or even Teacher’s Editions.

My schedule for the 6-period day was 3 freshmen English classes, 1 French II class, and one sophomore English class. The latter turned out to be the “Make it or break it class.” My theory is that every new high school (and probably middle school) teacher gets one class that determines whether or not (s)he can succeed as a teacher. This crew and I reached an accommodation (they were apparently amused by inspiring me to start a countdown to the end of the year on the blackboard [yes, black, yes, chalk] with something like 120 days to go) and it was determined I could give teaching a go.

There are things they don’t teach you in Teacher School (even if you go to class, which I was pretty lax about). Classes at Hancock were tracked, labeled from A-1 to C-8. So the first class I ever taught at Hancock was the freshmen C-8s. Their first question to me: “We’re the dumb class, aren’t we?” It really wasn’t a question, more them letting me know that they knew the score. Dumb indeed. I remember only stammering and giving what seemed a terrible answer, but we got along just fine. They told me later what a great job I did, but, hell, what did they know? They were the dumb class.

Second hour followed with the A-1s. They may have been Delmonico Steak to the C-8 ground beef, but both had value and I truly enjoyed them all, as well as the B-4 freshmen who came later in the day. The sophomores were B-4, as well. What the kids in French II had learned in French I remains something of a mystery to me to this day, but I pretty quickly determined that Hancock kids didn’t really need French. I hope they may have picked up that all languages have grammar, but other than providing me with three very bright young women for a French III class the next year, there really wasn’t much value in the class (plenty of value in the kids, though).

I have to believe that I learned way more than my students that year (I am guessing, but I think I also may have worked harder than many of them), and I appreciate their patience. Through them I took my first steps in learning how to teach. Not that I was anything close to approaching mastery. Iconic math teacher Don Steckhan once noted, “You ought to pay the school district during your first five years and last five years. But the 20 or so in the middle you ought to be paid triple.” Incidentally, my salary that year was $7405 (the highest starting salary in the state of Missouri; of course, that figure didn’t budge for the next two years and our lofty position plummeted quickly). Actually, because it took me so many classes to get my certifications, I was on the wrong column, but I was so grateful for the job I declined to mention that detail until the next year.

The Class of ’75 would have been a memorable group even if they hadn’t been my first, and I still feel lucky to have shared their journey through high school. Watching them grow and graduate as seniors was a special joy, one that was repeated throughout my next 36 years at Hancock. One of the best things about a small school like Hancock was the chance to watch my students grow, from freshmen to seniors. I knew, at least superficially, almost every senior who graduated every year, and, in many cases was privileged to see the changes, something that kept me going on the tough days.