I imagine all teachers remember their first lesson. Ah, I certainly remember my first day as a teacher – it is a recurring nightmare. There I was, a fresh-faced 20-year-old graduate armed only with a 3rd class degree in English and Drama, ready to conquer the teaching world. Or so I thought.
Now, I didn’t choose teaching; teaching chose me. I wanted to be a star of stage and screen. Teaching was like an unexpected blind date set up by anxious parents. It all began when my dear mother, fueled by an unrelenting ambition for her only son, stumbled upon an advert for English teachers in North Africa. Without consulting me or considering my life plans, she promptly enlisted my unsuspecting father to apply on my behalf. Before I could say “Laurence Olivier,” I found myself in an interview at the swanky Regent Palace Hotel in London.
The interview, led by an Irish man named Charles Kirkpatrick and a mysterious Arab gentleman, started with a few pleasantries. Little did they know, I was about as qualified for teaching as a fish for mountain climbing.
In a fit of honesty, I confessed my lack of teaching experience and apologized, blaming my parents for the mix up. But fate, it seems, had other plans. A day later the phone rang, and it was Charles Kirkpatrick with an offer – a one-year contract to teach English in Libya. Libya! In 1980 Libya was a pariah state harboring terrorists and occasionally bombed by the US air force. My parents, eager to see me spread my wings, enthusiastically gave their blessing. And just like that, I was flying to Libya, armed with nothing but a degree in drama and a suitcase full of naivety.
Fast forward to my first day as a teacher in Libya. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t even write on the whiteboard. The horrible cold realisation I had no clue what I was doing. Panic stricken. I got to break time and heard commotion outside the Director’s office. My immediate thought was all the students were complaining about me. I resigned myself to being fired. It was clear to me then that no one should enter the classroom with no training for teaching.
Actually, to say I had no training is not totally true. I had observed one lesson the previous day. Salvation arrived in the form of David, a 22-year-old teacher with a whopping one year of experience. I thought, “Great, I can observe David and learn the ropes.” Little did I know David was about as stable as jelly in an earthquake.
As I observed David’s lesson, things seemed OK, somewhat quirky but nothing too unusual – questions were asked, students responded. It appeared manageable. I thought, this is not so difficult. I can do this. Little did I know, I had just received my crash course in teaching from a paranoid schizophrenic. Yep, David was a real head case.
I am in the teachers’ room waiting for my dismissal when the Director of Studies bursts in, white-faced and flustered, with news that David’s class had turned into a psychological horror movie. The director turned to me, asking, “You saw him yesterday. Why didn’t you say something?”
My response? “Errr I thought David’s lesson was quite good.” Genius move, why was I evaluating a lesson? I knew as much about a good lesson as a fish knows about climbing trees. It turned out David was more than just an unconventional teacher; he was battling paranoid schizophrenia. And there I was, thinking my shaky whiteboard skills were the biggest problem of the day.
So, thanks to David’s dramatic intervention, I not only survived my first hour but also gained a whole new perspective on the difficulties teachers face. My nervousness and stage fright seemed insignificant to the demons David was confronting. So thanks to David I not only survived my first day but also realized that fear that seems insurmountable can be overcome when put into a proper perspective.
Was it destiny? Reflecting on the past it is plain the seeds of my interest in teacher training and helping teachers develop their skills was sown on that first day.
Teaching Artistry 