For My Mother (May I Inherit Half Her Strength)...

When I hear the word “teacher” I automatically think of my mother. Some of you know that she was my third grade teacher and have heard me tell stories of what that was like, even the time she came within an inch of giving me a detention. I tend to think the punishment would have been lost on me since I was already forced to stay after school and do my homework every day while I waited for her to wrap up her day, but that is neither here nor there.

I’ve watched my mother throughout her career as best I could. I saw the work that the rest of the world saw; the moments where she was pouring her energy into the education of children, the school assemblies and the conferences with parents. I also saw what the rest of the world does not see; lesson planning, cute bulletin board creations, the grading of papers and the completion of report cards, not to mention efforts to remain “certified” and the like. I learned quickly that being a teacher is one of the hardest jobs in the world and that while I have the capacity to instruct people, I do not think I have what it takes to be a teacher of children on a daily basis.

Grade structure here in Jamaica mirrors that which is used by the British; first form, second form, etc. First form is our equivalent of seventh grade and they measure it up until their fifth form. Should a student continue their education beyond fifth form, they enroll in a two year preparatory program which readies them for a test hosted by the CXC, the Caribbean Examinations Council. This is our equivalent of the SAT or ACT, however instead of one test, they take numerous tests on different topics (math, science, poetry, science, etc.) Once the exams are sufficiently passed they (hopefully) move on to university studies.

When I was here last month I helped with the grading of some English mid-term exams and they were studying the poem from which the title of this post is borrowed and I have chosen it because today I had a mere introduction to the life of a teacher and I am left with a simple question whirling around my head: How do they do it?

Some of it was easy, yes. Some of it was downright adorable as I timed and tested ten and eleven year olds on the pronunciation of letters such as a, e, f, g, c, and on simple words such as “an,” “too,” “two,” and “to.” They read stories composed with sentences such as, “I like to jump,” and they smiled proudly when they passed each level with less than three mistakes. Their reward for their hard work is a sticker and a “sweetie” (a piece of candy) for each test passed.

“Sir, how me do?”

“You only made two mistakes. You know what that means?”

“Me get a sweetie!”

“You passed two of the tests so you get two stickers and two sweeties! Good job!”

Then we bang fists like you see athletes do. It’s pretty damn cute, if I do say so myself.

Reading time being over, I switched gears up to fifth form English. This group meets three or four times per week and each time they meet their focus is different. Poetry is the focus on Mondays, Prose on Tuesdays and Drama on Thursdays. Today being a Monday the class was divided into three groups; each charged with the task of analyzing an individual poem. As I joined the class I began to feel my nerves kick in mainly because I had never been much of an English fanatic while in school so the potential that I might have to remark openly on poems I was reading for the first time was slightly intimidating. Let’s face it, I don’t speak the Queen’s English, Shakespeare I am not and I bastardize commas and semi-colons on these pages like it’s going out of style. Analyzing “Colonial Girls School” and noticing the caustic tone it directs towards colonials forcing their education on natives while utterly disregarding Jamaican history and heritage left me with more than just a raised eyebrow and a “Hmm,” - a response for which I am well known. I probably learned as much in that class period as any of the students.

The afternoon found me involved in what the priests call their “Personal Development” classes or “PD for short. It is in these classes they attempt to teach, explain and decipher the aspects of life which unfold at each age level. I decided to drop some knowledge with respect to accountability and consequences but it was much different bringing those topics to 12 year olds who understand it in the context of the classroom, at home, and with their friends, than it was to bring it to 14 year olds as we discussed them through the lens of teenage pregnancy.

I suddenly found myself wishing I was back in the poetry class.

Actually it wasn’t that bad. The concepts of accountability, consequences and the like are universal so finding their relevance wasn’t the challenge. The challenge sat in gearing the presentation towards varying audiences every forty minutes. It was a little jarring to make a jump from relating the topics in terms of not doing one’s homework to then discussing them in terms of perpetuating the cycle of poverty, but I think my discomfort had more to do with feeling like I was shooting from the hip with a group that seemed to be less than thrilled with what I was sharing with them.

Truth be told, these were some of the more exhilarating parts of the day and at the end of it all I was pretty sacked and in need of one of my famous power naps. As I lay on the grass looking up at the sky the day played back in my head and I realized that I had experienced a mere fraction of a teacher’s experience. This, in turn, led to me wondering how my mother has been doing this for so long. How on Earth has she been able to get up and do something like this day after day, year after year for more than twenty years? On top of all of this she helped raise me and my sisters, carved out a successful marriage with my father, and earned a master’s degree. Combine all of that with steadily deteriorating hearing and I’m left shaking my head and saying, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Maybe the secret is just to laugh as much as she does. Seriously, I don’t know anyone who makes my mother laugh as much as she does. It is not uncommon for her to be in hysterics way before the end of a sentence.

If it’s true that I am a 50/50 blend of my parents then I can hope to inherit half of my mother’s strength and if I do, well, I should thank that will be more than enough.

Oh yeah, and for all of you teachers who spend your time educating children in the classroom, Big Up Yourself, as they say here. Much love and respect.