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My first "real" teaching gig started a year after I graduated college. I was hired by a country 40 minutes east, at a school I had never attended, never even been to for competitions or anything. I was unfamiliar with the layout, the people, the students, the culture. Culture, it would turn out, mattered most of all.
My first year is a combination of hazy "how did I survive that?" memories coupled with very specific, jarring recollections of "wow so teaching's like that" moments. I got to know my department fairly quickly. My Principal too. But I remember slowly becoming friends with a man training to be an administrator.
Bob Kerns struck me as an atypical leader. He was very soft spoken, both in one-on-one conferences and larger meetings. He had the physique of an admin (they tend to have to break up a lot of fights after all) but always seemed to reserve his comment of judgement. Sometimes this worked to his advantage in that people couldn't dislike him for what he didn't state; something this didn't as others wanted him to act on a problem where his hands were tied.
One day, one situation specifically I remember. I was in my last year or two there (although, I didn't know it then - I was about to transfer to the city and MUCH closer to home, thus less driving time) and in a parent conference. The young lady in my class was struggling with some of the assessments related to our reading. These were the days I taught Twain's "Pudd'nhead Wilson" (God, miss that book) and Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle" to 11th graders. Good stuff.
The meeting though consisted of the student, her mom, the special education teacher, Bob, and myself. For those on the outside of the teaching profession looking in, a quick note: parent conferences are intimidating as hell for parents. Here is a room full of professionals who are going to "tell" you about your kid. With the right people, it can be wonderful, affirming experience of grownups coming together to ferry an adolescent through something particularly tough in their life. Without them, it can be a nightmare clash of wills. I've been in both.
The concerns the student and parent had were genuinely honest: how do we better prepare her for an assessment on her reading? I was still relatively young so I didn't understand that the mom was basically aiming for more time on the quiz. My daughter can do it, she was saying, but not as quickly as the other students in the room. So without any real fore-thought I asked the special ed teacher a quick question about the student's score on some diagnostic tests that had been conducted prior to the meeting. These tests measure things like students reading level, test taking speed and stress, among others. I asked what strengths had been identified from the diagnostic. My thinking was: maybe we can use something in her strengths to help her succeed on these quizzes more.
The teacher looked at the printout before her and replied, "She had significant aptitude in reading comprehension and vocabulary."
And the room stopped. I will never forget how slowly Bob's head came up, looked at me, looked at the student, looked at the special ed teacher and asked her to repeat the statement. Sure enough, the girl was in the top quartile for reading and vocabulary. (Again, for those unaccustomed to this, the translation: the girl read well above her grade level and had a vocabulary significantly above her peers.) Just as slowly it dawned on me that I had asked the one question the exposed the student in a pseudo-lie.
The mom turned to her daughter and asked her what book she was reading for me currently. The daughter stammered a title. In a last ditch effort, the mom asked the special ed teacher for the readibility of the book (again, translation: what grade level is the vocabulary and content). It was an 8th grade level. (Another sidenote: Twain often comes out in readbility much lower than he does in maturity required to read him. c.f.Huck Finn.) The last thing of that meeting was the mother demanding of her daughter what was the big problem, and how could this really be hard, and was she really reading the damn book in the first place!
And then Bob impressed me, as he would on so many future occasions. He sided with the student. He offered suggestions: flashcards, study guides, peer groups. Heck, just talk about the book with a friend. (I think he knew the real issue was that the girl wasn't making time for the reading but he was giving her an out that she needed.) The mom and daughter left feeling a little chastised but not alienated. I would participate in enough future parent meetings to realize how rare it is to strike this particular chord.
After the student and parent left, I was gathering up the things I had brought (most of which proved unnecessary to the meeting but that was normal) when I caught Bob's eye. He glanced from me to the special ed teacher and said, "And that's why I like having Aaron in parent conferences." He smiled; she smiled. I looked as confused as a baboon at the north pole.
It dawned on me later that night: in a way, I had arrived at what I wanted to do well. I wanted to be a good teacher (definition pending) but I also wanted to be valuable. To be important to the school and other people I worked with. Not celebrated or crap like that. But respected. What we all want, I supposed. But Bob Kerns said it first. He made me feel like just maybe I had chosen the right profession and one day I might get a little good at it.
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