I was drunk when I decided to become a teacher. (Isn’t everyone?). I was about to turn thirty or -- maybe I’d just turned thirty -- and was sitting on my preferred barstool in my preferred watering hole into my third or fourth hour of drinking when it occurred to me that I wanted something more out of life than to be a proofreader and copy editor. The drinking I was fine with, but being a wage slave is where I drew a line. I’d by this time self-sabotaged my career as a journalist which is another story and rather sad one at that. Another time, perhaps.
Back to the barstool ..... Okay, Richard, I reasoned, you’ve always loved history, why not try teaching it? Fair enough, I responded. Mind you I’d never given being a teacher any thought. Not for a second. But when intoxicated I was liable to imagine myself in all manner of scenarios like being married to Linda Ronstadt or Cybill Shepherd. This idea of being a teacher had a tinge of respectability and believability to it.
The damnedest thing is that when sober the next day I still managed to envision myself teaching. I thought something along the lines of: let’s go for it. So I did.
No one I mentioned the idea to burst out laughing or screamed, “for the love of god don’t do it, the humanity!” Not even my level-headed girlfriend. Maybe I was on to something.
A few months later I was enrolled in school completing a degree in history (I’d minored in it when I got my journalism degree). I enjoyed my courses and had some good professors and for the first time in my life I was enjoying school — that is, the classes part of it. I’d always enjoyed the extra curriculars of school from kindergarten through college, but the class time had bored me silly — with exceptions here and there. Now I was looking forward to classes and diving headlong into the reading, studying for tests and researching/writing papers.
After two semesters I was the proud possessor of my second bachelor’s degree. Not good enough. I wanted to further my studies, both for my own edification and also to make me an even better prepared historian when I began teaching. But I was in a bit of a rush so made the seemingly foolhardy decision to try to complete my two-year Master’s program in half the time. I was warned against this by the head of the history department and two trusted professors. But I was on a roll.
The following year was, to put it mildly, intense. I scheduled virtually every second. I maintained a calendar which specified how much (to the page) reading I was to do each day. I stuck to it. (Remarkably my career as a drinking alcoholic continued apace as I even scheduled when I could get drunk.) By this time I’d quit my job and was a full time student and I loved it. Indeed, I loved that academic year and if you’ll excuse the expression, I kicked ass. I became only the third person to complete the schools’s MA program in one year and to top it off, not only did I not struggle, I graduated with distinction. That I received this honor in doing two years in one made me a positive marvel to my professors. Two of them convinced that I should continue my studies by pursuing a PhD. They assured me that I would get into any program I chose. I had applications sent to the University of Wisconsin and Boston University when my girlfriend (now wife) convinced me that if we were to start a family it might be best that I stick to my original plan and get a teaching credential. She was — as has generally been the case — quite right. I’d have been ill-suited for academia, besides which my particular kind of energy was then ideally suited for teaching younger folks.
I was not enamored of the credential program classes. It quickly became obvious that when it comes to teaching you learn by doing. I’d always intended to teach high school but when our program visited a middle school something clicked. I connected both with the age group and the particular school. In fact I determined that I would absolutely HAVE TO teach at that school. I did my student teaching there and it went well, especially the day I did a lesson on the Great Depression by dressing as if an elderly hobo transported from that era. Right down to a fake beard, cane and tattered clothes. Students and adults were enthralled.
Alas there were no openings for history teachers at the school, nor for that matter, anywhere else. I spent my first year as a credentialed teacher subbing, though mostly at my preferred school. After another half year of subbing they had an opening and I had a job.
By this time I’d also gotten sober and become a father. I was all set to be an adult with a career.
I was at the school for twenty-two years in total. They were not all smooth, especially at the end as I’d ran afoul of administrators on far too many occasions. I was oppositional and rebellious fighting both important battles and unnecessary ones. As faculty adviser of the school's student newspaper I'd once sicced the ACLU on the district when they threatened to censor the paper. This put a large target on my back.
Two things are true about my middle school teaching career: 1) I was loved by and an inspiration to many students 2) I often showed a lack of judgment and maturity and constantly struggled with discipline. I was handicapped by struggles with mental health issues. Indeed it’s remarkable that I was as successful as I was given that I was improperly diagnosed and given a series of the wrong medications many of which had problematic side effects. (Sometimes I wistfully wonder how my career would have gone if I’d been properly diagnosed as being on the bipolar spectrum and been prescribed my current medication for panic attacks from the beginning.)
In any event I eventually resigned when trumped up charges got to be too much to bear. (It should be noted that while the bastards at central administration were determined to be rid of me, no one at the school who’d actually saw me teach wanted me to go. I was, despite it all, a valued member of the school community.)
In the moments, days and weeks after my resignation I felt an incredible lightness as if — excuse the cliche — a tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I quickly decided on a new direction as a teacher and thus returned to school to get a Teacher of English as a Foreign Language (TEFL) certificate. I would teach English to students visiting from other countries. Though I’d never done the like before, it seemed a grand idea and sure enough it has been an absolute joy these past thirteen years. I’ve never been happier professionally. I have a mutual admiration society with my students. Administrators revere me as a veteran teacher who always shows up, is professional and popular and an integral part of the school.
I was at EF in San Francisco for seven and half years before deciding (foolishly) to retire. Retirement lasted three months before I took a job at LSI in Berkeley where I was for four and half years, leaving the school last week to return to EF next month. I’ll be 70 in February so can’t be sure how much longer I’ll continue to teach, certainly another two years seems reasonable. As long as I’m ambulatory and have the power of speech I can keep going. I love it. I love doing something that I’m good at. I constantly push myself to innovate and improve. I’m there for my students and never mail it in.
Who’d have thought that a decision made in the throes of drinking spree would — despite a few bumps along the way — work out so well?
I've had hardships but gracious it's been fun and rewarding.
A shout out to my good friend (all the way back to high school), Phil. He did go into academia and was a positive marvel at it. He is likewise a marvel as a person.
