Bad Teacher: An Essay in ABC Order
Jennifer Watkins


A is for A Lot.

According to the Pew Research Center, three quarters of all Americans believe that teachers contribute “a lot” to the wellbeing of society. When it comes to worker benevolence, the public ranks teachers more highly than clergy, medical doctors, scientists, business executives, and lawyers. Only members of the military are perceived as more noble.

B is for Blessed.

After receiving a vision of Christ as a teenager, Catherine of Alexandria converted to Christianity. She gained widespread fame when, at the age of eighteen, she debated pagan philosophers and won. The bystanders – some two hundred soldiers, commoners, and members of the royal family – were so impressed that they converted. Centuries later, she was invoked as the patroness of teachers.
Throughout the world, educators pray to her for guidance, protection, and wisdom.
St. Catherine, they pray. Most blessed and favored patron saint . . .

C is for Cannibalism.

During my junior year of high school, I considered becoming a teacher. It seemed as good a profession as any – respectable, secure, noble. One Sunday after church, I spoke with Delores Wall, a veteran teacher and choir member. I sat in a pew, yellow legal pad in hand, ready to record her wisdom in electric purple ink.
“Honey, don't do it,” she said with a little laugh. “Those kids will chew you up and spit you out.”
Her words stuck. For years after, whenever I thought about teaching as a profession, I imagined student cannibals roasting me over glowing coals. Passing skewers around a circle. They’d bite and they’d chew.
“Too stringy,” one might comment.
“Spaghetti arms,” another would agree. “She can barely lift a cup of coffee.”
And then a third:  “Try the thighs instead; they’ve really got some meat on the bone.”
They’d chew intently, like cows grinding cud. Then, when the seconds turned to minutes and it became clear that I wasn’t worth the effort, they’d finally spit me out.

D is for Drama.

I majored in Theatre. After college graduation, one thing was clear: Acting in community theatre productions was not a reliable source of income. So I did what lots of theatre majors do – I decided to teach. I worked in a cubicle mediating auto insurance claims during the day and completed an alternative teaching certification program on the weekends. The program lasted nine months. In the context of such a compressed program, I observed other teachers a total of four times, and practiced teaching students zero times. By comparison, most education majors graduate with two or more years of student teaching experience. Despite my lack of real classroom experience, a rural school district hired me to be a high school drama teacher.

E is for Esquith.

Rafe Esquith, a thirty-year teaching veteran and National Teacher of the Year, was my imaginary teaching mentor. He gained international acclaim by training fifth-grade students from Los Angeles slums to perform fully mounted Shakespearean productions. Though not technically a drama teacher, he did function as after-school director for his elementary theatre program. In the months leading up to my teaching appointment, I used his book (Teach Like Your Hair’s on Fire) as an educator’s Bible, marked and highlighted and folded down pages.  In it, he writes:
I teach my students that while rules are necessary, many of our greatest heroes became heroes by not following the rules. [...] Extraordinary people throughout history have done this, and if we want our children to reach such heights, they need to know the rules but see past a chart on the wall. There will be times when the chart is not there. More important, there will be times when the chart is wrong.

F is for First Year Faculty.

In addition to teaching a full course load and directing a competition drama team, my first year teaching duties included selling doughnuts for school fundraisers. Before school, I wrote lesson plans. After school, I directed plays. On the weekends, I built sets. In between, there were committee meetings and open houses and professional development units and parent-teacher conferences.
Like a good Esquith ingénue, I taught like my hair was on fire. I taught like my whole body was on fire. 

G is for Graham.

My educator's work ethic began several years earlier. At recess one day, my sixth grade teacher handed me a manila folder full of worksheets. At the front of the stack was a grading key. Mrs. Graham whispered conspiratorially that this was a covert operation, and that my assistance would help her out so much. After grading the papers inside, I was to return them to her. “Be careful,” she cautioned, “not to share your classmates' scores with anyone else.” This was a high level job for a very responsible student.
“I’d be happy to, Mrs. Graham." My eyes scanned the playground and lingered on my arch nemesis, a pigtailed blond. "I won't tell anyone at all."
​
H is for Hobart Shakespeareans.

The Hobart Shakespeareans, an acting troupe made up of Rafe Esquith’s fifth graders, became world renowned under his leadership. The students (and Rafe) were the subject of a PBS documentary and even performed for Sir Ian McKellen on occasion. Among novice educators like myself, Esquith’s students were held up as an example of the miraculous possibilities that exist in challenging school environments. During my K12 tenure I watched the documentary again and again, willing myself to absorb Esquith’s genius.

I is for Inanimate Objects.

Some little girls line up stuffed animals and teach them ABCs. The inanimate objects are the perfect students—rapt, motionless, compliant. These budding teachers find joy in order, joy in leadership, joy in transmitting information.
As a little girl, I read my paperback books aloud like scripts. My stuffed animals were not students, but audience members. I played all the characters in every book, a miniature one-woman show. I liked performing for the toys because there were no hecklers in the audience. On the other hand, there was also no applause.

J is for Joke.

The old joke among teachers:
Question: “Why do you love teaching?”
Answer: “Three reasons. June, July, and August.”
 
K is for Kara.

The first day in the classroom as a new high school drama teacher, I read my syllabus aloud. The paper shook as I held it, so I placed it on a podium, tucking my hands into neatly pressed slacks. I spoke over the soundtrack that was looping on endless repeat: Chew you up and spit you out. Chew you up and spit you out.
As I read the rules section, thirty teenagers stared back at me, elbow to elbow and unimpressed. The classroom, recently relocated to a small cinderblock room with poor air circulation, was well over the attendance cap.
“And those are the rules,” I concluded. “Non-negotiable, folks. You have a problem with these parameters, you can take another elective.” I crossed my arms, secretly hoping that some of the students would drop the overcrowded class. Disappointingly, no one moved.
“Alright then,” I said. “Time for some warm-ups.” I demonstrated a variety of theatre warm-ups, urging the students to join in. We reached toward the ceiling, leaned down to touch our toes. Repeated silly phrases: Unique New York. Red leather, yellow leather. Twisted, rotated, stretched. Most students attempted the exercises; eye rolls were minimal.
One student stood motionless and silent in the back of the room. Her name was Kara, and I knew from her discipline record that she made her own rules. She was stout, sturdy as a farmhand and a good six inches taller than me. In my mind’s eye, I could see it­—Kara heaving me across the room like a bale of hay. I’d lie in the corner, a motionless heap, and the class would descend into anarchy.
“Kara, please join us,” I asked in between windmills and shoulder rotations.
“I don’t feel like it,” she said.
“This class is participatory; it only works if you participate,” I said.
“I don’t want to. It’s stupid,” she said.
I stopped. So did everyone else. I stared her down. “Then you can go straight to the office, Kara,” I said, cheeks hot with anger. “I don’t want to see you for the rest of the week!” I scribbled on a discipline referral form and opened the classroom door. Kara snatched the slip and walked to the door. Before exiting, she turned to me and glared.
“I’m pregnant, you bitch.”
The class erupted in applause.

L-M-N-O-P is for things that don’t make sense.

I accepted Mrs. Graham’s commission to grade papers with the sole purpose of dethroning Sarah Thurmond. My arch nemesis since third grade, she was smug and dimpled, a life-sized Cabbage Patch doll. Teachers adored her for her supposed charm and talent, but really, her mother always completed her science fair projects, down to the tri-fold board with perfectly stenciled letters. She won first place each year.
Up to that point, Sarah had been teacher’s pet. The designation meant one thing—the coveted job of cleaning chalkboard erasers. At 2:30 every afternoon, Sarah got to take the erasers outside and bang them against the brick walls.  She got to pick a partner, too—always Lindsey Reynolds. Each day, the two of them returned at 2:35 with impish smiles and smudges of chalk dust on their noses while the rest of us did word searches or math drills.
In the beginning, I graded papers during spare class time, only after completing my own assignments.  Soon, Mrs. Graham asked if I’d mind scoring the papers during our class’s silent reading time. I wanted to finish my Sweet Valley Twin paperbacks, but I wanted to oust Sarah more. By the end of the year, I was grading stacks of papers at home by the light of a squat television, dozens at a time. The last day of school came and went, and I never once got to clean those chalkboard erasers.
At the end of the year, Mrs. Graham sent me a thank you card. “You’ll make a great teacher one day,” she wrote in loopy cursive. A picture of a fluffy gray kitten was on the cover.

Q is for Quit.

According to research from the University of Pennsylvania, forty to fifty percent of teachers leave the classroom within their first five years. Nearly half of college students who pursue undergraduate degrees in teaching never enter the classroom at all.
After two years in the system, I quit teaching. Instead, I took a position as a part time grant writer. Later, I enrolled in a graduate program in creative writing.

R is for Reflection.

 
Essay Question
Considering your childhood performances, undergraduate training, early experiences with teaching and teachers, subsequent experience in the public school system, and seemingly tangential decision to pursue writing, synthesize these elements into a cohesive narrative explaining your philosophy of vocation and career. Use additional paper, if desired.
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S is for Spank. 

After thirty years of teaching, Rafe Esquith was fired. An investigation revealed that Esquith inappropriately touched female students, stored pornography on his school computer, and kept his fifth grade students after school to watch scenes depicting nudity and sexual intercourse. There were also hundreds of inappropriate, sexually laced emails to female students, such as this one to a fourteen-year-old girl:
“I spank really hard. Your bottom will hurt for months.”
And then the follow up:
“I’d love to see you tomorrow, and maybe even try that spanking!”

T is for Torture.

After the public square debates and subsequent conversions, St. Catherine’s followers were executed one by one. The executors attempted to kill Catherine on a spiked torture wheel, but legend holds that she touched the spikes and made the wheel explode. So instead, she was beheaded.

U is for Unify.

Please connect the dots:
·         Rafe Esquith.
·         Mrs. Graham.
·         St. Catherine.
·         Me.

V is for Vandalism.

Because once, a student carved bitch into one of my classroom desks.

W is for Who?

HIM: How r u?
ME: OK. Frustrated
HIM: ?
ME: This job sux. Idk what I want 2 b when I grow up
HIM:  L
ME: What do I want 2 do?
HIM: Idk. Maybe it’s the wrong question? Maybe the right question is: Who do u want 2 B?

X is for Xenomorph.

Xenomorph: something unusually or irregularly shaped.
A word used for things that don’t fit.

Y is for Yellow.

Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather, yellow leather.
“It's no fun to be yellow. Maybe I'm not all yellow. I don't know. I think maybe I'm just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I lose something - it used to drive mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys spend days looking for something they've lost. I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I'd care too much. Maybe that's why I'm partly yellow. It's no excuse, though. It really isn't. What you should be is not yellow at all.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Z is for Zinfandel.

Zinfandel, White. A dry to sweet pink-colored rosé. Made with low-quality grapes, the wine is blended into a consistent house style and served as tables around the world. Wine lovers often turn their noses up at the blend—too much sweetness, not enough nuance. It’s regarded as cheap, broad, easy; the wine people drink when they lack the experience to choose and appreciate finer wines.
 
Z is for Zookeeper.

Zookeeper: A person who feeds and tends animals, usually for minimum wage.

Z is for Zero.

According to the Pew Research Center, three quarters of all Americans believe that teachers contribute “a lot” to the wellbeing of society. When it comes to worker benevolence, the public ranks teachers more highly than clergy, medical doctors, scientists, business executives, and lawyers. Only members of the military are perceived as more noble.
On an impact scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being a lot and 1 being not at all, the law of averages says that most teachers land somewhere in the middle. Some even rest squarely on zero.

Z is for Z.

Z: the twenty-sixth and final letter of the alphabet.

Z is for Z.

Now It’s Your Turn!
Tie up this exploration—neatly, succinctly, and eloquently—with a word that begins with the letter Z. Good luck.
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About the Author:  Jennifer Watkins, MFA, is a writer of creative nonfiction with work appearing in The Chattahoochee Review and Tampa Review, among others. She is a 2017 winner of the AWP Intro Journals award for creative nonfiction.

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