I remember crossing the bridge in my hometown on the last day of school one year, opening my satchel and dropping all the contents into the river. Watching all that loose leaf float down toward the flume and the falls, I watched my cares of the school year float on. Terrible for the environment, but great for my mental health. I didn’t hate school. In fact, I enjoyed school so much that I played school with my sister and her friends during our summer vacation (I was always the teacher). I had a number of teachers who believed in me, and encouraged me by assigning extra work or books to read. One of my favorite teachers was Mrs. Kirkham, my Grade 7 teacher. Her bearing was majestic, crowned by glossy black hair that she wrapped in an enormous knot on the top of her head. Once my mother came back from a parent-teacher meeting and I pestered her to tell me what the teacher had said about me. My mother, clearly embarrassed, only told me that Mrs Kirkham had made some flattering remarks about me.
I wish my 11-year-old son had a Mrs Kirkham. I wish he had teachers who believed in him, teachers who praised him and encouraged him. Instead, he was sent home for the summer vacation last week with a report card containing the following – roughly translated – remarks from his teacher:
“F. showed interest in most subjects, but was often careless. He was particularly disinterested and unwilling to make an effort in Physical Education. He had troubling concentrating and following the lessons in all subjects except English and Art. He raised his hand only occasionally, but worked well on his own, although at an extrememly slow pace. To some extent he had difficulty getting organized. Not only did he forget his homework and notebooks, but he also slouched in his chair and showed a negative attitude in class. In the first half of the year, he could not be trusted to obey the rules. Moreover, when confronted with his misdemeanors, he was incorrigible, stubborn, and unwilling to show reason. This improved only towards the end of the school year. Towards his classmates, F. was helpful and considerate. In the open discussions with the class he often contributed to solving problems by making good suggestions.”
Uff! Now, haven’t we all learned to give the positive feedback first, and only then the negative? Those words depressed the heck out of me. I knew all that stuff and have a number of e-mails from the teacher to prove it. Why rub it in at the end of the school year? Why can’t teachers be a little kinder? There are Mrs Kirklands here – but where? My little boy has been suffering tough teachers for the past three years. But this was the first year that he had detentions and had to write lines. I think he found it mildly sadistic when the supervising math teacher passed the time by listening to her i-pod, helping herself to a bag of gummy bears and flicking through a magazine. The next time my boy got a detention I asked the teacher if F. could at least use the time sensibly by doing his homework or memorizing a poem. Homework, no; poem, yes. F. and his father chose Goethe’s “Totentanz” (“Dance of Death”). Now at least he can recite Goethe.
