ISA, The International School of Amsterdam
Forty years ago—that’s four-zero—I imagined myself a teacher. In what would become an essential component of my teacher preparation at Salisbury State College, I met Julia Crawford. Known as a preeminent breeder of Bernese Mountain dogs, Ms. Crawford was also a well-respected staff member of the Westside Intermediate School, and my cooperating teacher.
WIS now. (Believe me, it did not look like this in the day)
All these years later I can remember clearly the things I learned from my experience in her classroom. I sometimes recall tiny little moments to which I have attached far too much significance. Here’s one: she admonished my use of the then popular expression, “jeese.” (Remember Archie used to say it to Meathead?) Ms. Crawford informed me that it was a crude reference to Jesus Christ and I should refrain from its use. Clear. Here’s another one: when erasing the chalkboard (btw, no one uses chalk anymore—fyi) always erase “everything” lest you eliminate part of a word leaving the remainder to spell out a concept you did not wish to discuss or knowledge you did not mean to impart. In other words, if you erase the “c” from canal and leave the rest, the explanation to inquisitive children becomes unnecessarily mandatory. (Hey, live and learn; it was 1975 on the conservative eastern shore of Maryland. Let’s just say, Ms. Crawford was rather direct in her object lesson—when you erase, erase it all.)
In addition to many, many fundamentals of instruction I also learned the captivating power of reading aloud to students. Seems obvious; doesn’t it? In the three short months with Ms. Crawford, she read Half Magic by Edward Eager to our class. They seemed mesmerized while she read.
My first assignment was as a fifth grade at Victory Villa Elementary School. It happened like this. I graduated from Salisbury State College and moved back to Baltimore. I applied to the Baltimore County Public Schools, and in the meantime began substituting at VVE. On my first day as a long-term sub, the principal, Pete Galley, delivered a stack of curriculum guides and teacher’s manuals to me in “my” new classroom and essentially did his best Knute Rockne pre-game speech. What he left out was why they needed a substitute for the last three weeks of the school year to begin with. I quickly learned that the class had been without a regular teacher for sometime. They had effectively run-off a series of short-term subs with their behavior. Reports of furniture being thrown out the windows and other less dramatic antics were reserved in case I lived through the first day with them.
I lived. Oh I lived all right. I lived first-hand what I would hear Ruth Ragland say one year later at her retirement dinner when describing the secret to her longevity—“I decided a long time ago, if it was either them or me; it wasn’t going to be me.” Me either. Looking back, I’m glad Ms. Crawford wasn’t there to see me treading water the first few days alone with my furniture throwers. Like I said, “It wuttent gonna be me.” What I know now is what I didn’t realize then—the things Ms. Crawford taught me would become the essence of who I became as a teacher. So, what did I do? I read to them. Mythology. They forgot about rearranging furniture long enough to sit down. They sat down long enough to listen. They listened long enough to learn.
In fact, there were no fatalities during the last three weeks of that school year unless you include the demise of my romantic notion of what teaching really is—yeah, we lost him in the first six minutes. There was a birth, of sorts. Born in me was the conviction that I could do this job.
Applying, relocating, and diving into the job at ISA is vaguely reminiscent of all that. The metaphorical “stack of curriculum guides” delivered to me this time was no less overwhelming. The enormity of all things considered—the instructional philosophy, the technology (if only there were a 16mm projector; alas), the jargon, the meetings; jeese; don’t get me started!) the resources (let’s just say, my teacher-buddies back home would not believe what is available; no kidding, the operating budget must be millions upon millions of dollars)—the impact is staggering.
Staggering, yes; but it takes an awful lot to knock me down (although it does appear that they are trying.) For the first two days (teacher-prep days before students arrived), I thought maybe it had all passed me by. I thought maybe the stack of curriculum guides was finally too heavy. I thought too much.
Forty years down the road
Forty years down the road, Ms. Crawford isn’t far away. My class at ISA has been without their regular teacher for sometime now. Like I did all those years ago, I will finish the year with them. No, there are no horror stories waiting for me in case I live. But waiting for my best effort each day, there are 18 faces with migration stories to which most American students simply cannot relate.
The "Reading Corner" in rm. 144
Last Monday as the kids returned to the room after lunch and took their various favorite locations in the reading corner of the room, someone asked if we were going to hear another tale by Hans Andersen (there’s much to be learned there). “No,” I answered. “Today we will begin a book I first heard a long time ago. It first appeared in 1954, same as me…”
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