There’s a lot of talk lately in the news about teacher quality and teacher training and what makes a good teacher, which has led me into some sort of reverie about my teaching days - now long gone - but teaching days that somehow still seem to be a part of my life.
I retain so many memories of children I have taught: from the bright-eyed, intelligent and beautiful to the difficult, troublesome and rough-around-the edges rebels.
From the funny times and the sad times; busy times and
even busier times. Days when I could have a little smile with the child who asked for help to spell ‘zeum’, because he knew how to spell ‘new’, after he visited the museum. Or the little boy who asked how to spell BMX, so he could write about his new bike. Memories of children who grew into adults with amazing careers and one who didn’t get much past secondary school before crashing a car into a tree and ending a life that was once buoyant and full of promise. (read my account, “Harry’s Story” in the non-fiction section).
Just a few of my memories. It is perhaps only now that I realise what a privilege it was to be part of so many children’s lives – each one for a year at least. I can only hope that I did well in the task set before me.
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I choose to comment on social issues and write creatively on a variety of subjects - for a variety of audiences.