Why I am a Teacher.
Yes, I was inspired by a brilliant teacher, but I was also inspired by religious zealots, paedophiles, bigots and incompetent teachers, who I was determined to better.
The playground at Marcellin Junior College, nestled in the heart of Coogee on Coogee Bay Road was completely cold, hard cement, unforgiving on the bare knees of the active and growing 11 and 12s-year-old boys. High wire fences boarded the dark bricked imposing building from the family homes surrounding the school. Several stories high the classes on the upper levels, offered a view, glimpses of hope, of the crumbling Wedding Cake Island just drowning in sunlight and summer heat in gorgeous Coogee Bay. Crashing white-water, enticing my classmates and me to dream of boyhood after school freedoms. Brother Pius, a sharp straight nose, unsmiling stern man, cane-wielding masochist reminded me to write J.M.J. (Jesus Mary and Joseph) ever more neatly in the top left of my page and added that each page I wrote was a dedication to the trio, a prayer to them. I just thought it was nice of them to include the stepdad, Joesph, everyone usually forgets about the stepdads. I wasn't going to heaven my prayers were never neat enough.
School life was as harsh and as unforgiving as the grounds of the school. I had come from the next beach across, St Anthony's Clovelly where the nuns still wearing habits wielding canes just as fiercely as the brothers, preaching how Jesus loved the little Children. The older sisters were sweet-natured and occasionally appeared, to almost understand the needs of young boys to get out and be active. I remember the thrill of skipping class, going out of bounds for heaven's sake, and helping weed the grounds of the convent, what an adventure to look down upon the schoolyard from the sacred grounds of the convent set high above the school. I was in the remedial reading group taken by old Sister Agnus, who felt sorry for me and slipped me an icing covered bun of sorts every so often. I never understood whether the sympathy was for either me being ‘thick' or the fact that she felt sorry for a latchkey child of a single poor divorced mother from far Western New South Wales. Then there was Helen whom I was going to Marry in year two and my arch nemesis and best friend Mark Perrin, who also loved Helen. Dark haired Helen was in the remedial class, and we would sneakily hold hands or daringly steal kisses from behind the immaculately pure white statue of Mother Mary at little lunch. I was so going to hell, so I balanced it out with devotion to being an alter boy. Once we were both chosen to hand out silver topped glass bottles of milk from the crates that arrived at school each recess I was on top of the world. Helen moved up and away from the remedial group. Shattered I quickly found the motivation to learn to read and I then magically became ‘smarter' and could join my classmates. I remember being so excited that I was then allowed to do S.R.A. cards later described in the 90s as the ‘thalidomide of literacy.'
There was no such indulging at Marcellin. The brothers wearing their white soutanes, belted by a thin black rope, with a loose black necklace and large brass crucifix worn above their heart wielded their canes while preaching St Marceline Champagne educational philosophy " to educate children you must love them all equally." It would seem that some brothers took that very literally, but it was true. We knew which brothers to stay away from and when to avoid them. We knew no better, were imprisoned by our fears of being targeted ourselves. We were fearful, and it came out as cruelty towards those boys whom we all knew were the brothers ‘favourites.' They were unmercifully blamed and bullied for allowing it to happen. ‘Poofters' was the only inadequate word we had to secretly describe those brothers; they just loved the children too much, soft kind men did that kind of thing. We thought it reasonable; older siblings passed down words of advice as to whom to watch out for, we accepted it out of fear.
My father died when I was 11, in year 5. I returned to school after a week off to find my books and desk had been removed to the back of the classroom. I fended off the kind concerns of the soft brothers and teachers who 'cared'. The year finished, and in year six, Mr Flannery, a wild-eyed young teacher shattered my worldview.
I didn't know teachers could have a personality or could have a life for that matter. He drove a beat up an old car the size of a matchbox; a weathered soft leather briefcase squeezed under his arm, tweed jackets, pants and always a tie. He was funny; he was kind, being in the classroom felt safe at last. He sent us down the street with a dollar note to buy smokes if he had run out and wooden spoons from the local hardware store. While it may sound fanciful, it is entirely true. He read to us Jonathon Livingstone Seagull, as we sat after lunch each day as we gazed out towards the bay, contently savouring the slightest of zephyrs the summer would offer, we were allowed to imagine and dream.
Kogarah Marist High, in the southern suburbs of Sydney, the brothers were a different breed altogether, while still cloaked in white there were many more ‘lay' teachers employed to help deliver the curriculum, they were real just into God in a way i couldn't comprehend. Back then footballers still had to make ends meet and held down jobs like the rest of us. Our school supported the mighty, mighty St George Dragons and teachers who played football were looked after by given employment at the school. My distrust of teachers and brothers ran deeply and in year eight after being wrongly accused. After school detention and being given six of the best by my maths/ woodwork teacher Mr Butler and outside centre or winger. I stormed into my principal's office outlining the injustice and swore then and then that I was going to be a teacher and come back and show these guys how it was supposed to be done. I would become the best bloody teacher I could be. I received an apology albeit brief and quiet; it was the first time I felt any control say or input into my education.
Today, I still have no tolerance for incompetence; I drive to improve my craft and support others in developing their craft. I am inspired by the words of a significant and positive influence on why I am a good teacher, but that's another story.
Is it good for kids?
If I have to do it how can I make it work for the kids benifit.?
