Exemplary Parents and Inferior Teachers

When I was young, my parents often reminded me that I should not worry about other people’s opinions, unless they were trying to help me. This meant that I should not care if someone did not like the form of my jump shot in basketball, my pitching wind-up in baseball, or even my style of writing. When I found success in something doing it my own way, then there was no reason to change it. Not everything has to be done the conventional way, I was taught. If this support had been matched by more of my teachers growing up, then I would have entered Siena College as a far more confident reader and writer. The truth is that my teachers in middle and high school, perhaps the most crucial years for a student, did not help me improve my skills through instruction and positive criticism, but shed a negative light on each that has set me back in the long run. This was until I graduated from high school and made it into college. Taking college classes and being taught by professors who value the progress made by their students has brought literacy back into my daily life.

The home environment in which I grew up should have, in retrospect, guaranteed me a future as someone with a great understanding and love of the English language. My father graduated from college with a degree in English, and my mother did the same a few years later. Neither of them went on to careers that were primarily focused in reading or writing, but they truly loved the English language. I asked my parents just a few years ago if they had hoped that my brother and I would share this interest with them; both said yes. I had to know that this would be the answer—at least I should have. My mom is a stickler for proper grammar. She consistently critiques letters, emails, and general conversation. More of a Patricia O’Connor type, my mom never speaks out to be hurtful, but is just an honest and helpful person who enjoys the English language in the way it was intended. As a young kid my mom taught me how to properly carry on a conversation. Listening to me speak, one would never hear mistakes like, “me and Chris are leaving,” or “I’m doing good.” Errors like these have set off an alarm within me since I was very young, before I even knew why, thanks only to my mother. My dad was never the type to correct me, yet he expressed his desire for me to share his passion for English in his own way.

Every night before bed my dad asked if I wanted to listen to him read a book. To be honest, I do not remember when this tradition started, but I do know that it went on a very long time. The Hardy Boys and The Happy Hollisters were our two favorite series. Sometime during these years began my love of reading, or at least hearing my dad read to me. My dad loved to share one story in particular from when I was in preschool. We were going to have a “father-son” day. My request, out of anything in the world, was to go for a hike and find a spot to read. The day was perfect; a clear blue sky without a cloud in sight, the rushing water of the Susquehanna River smashing against the rocks beside us, and the distinct smell of the air after a long rain when the sun comes out and shines. We sat on the damp, moss covered rock of my choice, and read. At some point during the story, my dad noticed that I was not looking at either him or the book, so he asked me what was going on in the story. I went on to give, as he told it, a ten minute summary of the last few chapters of the book up until his last few words. This, in my mind, must have been around the time I started to love literature. I began feeling not only the satisfaction gained from a good book, but the undeniable pleasure of parents’ true approval. Everyone knows that their parents love them, but there is something different about the look they give you when you truly impress them.

Going to school should have obviously strengthened my reading and writing skills, and this is what happened in elementary school. I can remember reading out loud for the first time to my classmates in Mrs. Sosa’s first grade class, my first report in third grade—the reason why I am still an authority on leopard seals, and being one of two people to read an essay aloud to the entire student body in sixth grade entitled “My Seven Years at Center Street Elementary.” The most important part of these years was that I had teachers who saw potential in me, like my parents had, and pushed me to succeed. I continued to love this feeling of being recognized, just like my parents had made me feel at home. This was something that I became accustomed to and did not think that anything would ever change when I moved up to Oneonta Middle School. Nothing played out the way I expected.

I was a strong reader and a confident writer moving on to OMS. Ms. Drago’s favorite quote in sixth grade was, “middle school will prepare you for the crucial four years of high school.” This is not what happened. I had average grades in elementary school, so in middle school was placed into the regular classes. Surely these teachers were expected by their superiors to provide the best education possible to the students in all of their classes, but it is clear looking back now that they did not. I did not understand why they did not share the enthusiasm of my parents and earlier teachers. They did not have the confidence that those before had in me, and left me lacking the advantages of positive criticism or worthwhile approval. Seventh and eighth grade consisted of the students messing around constantly while teachers let it happen. Looking back on these days I regret so much that I did not take the initiative outside of school to read or practice any form of writing. I was definitely not doing what my parents had hoped I would. If only my teachers shared the same feelings. I believe today that the expectations of my teachers were being fulfilled because they did not expect anything more from me than the mediocre work that I handed in and the rude attitude that I displayed. This may sound harsh, so I offer another possibility; maybe the teachers felt that they were doing their jobs, and this was all that I was capable of. The latter would seem highly unlikely, though, if anyone were to sit in on an Oneonta Middle School classroom. On to high school I went, headed on a backward path toward illiteracy.

My first year in high school things actually began to turn around. My Englsih teacher was a friend of my parents, and like them, she loved the language we speak. Mrs. Hardison showed interest in me, and made me feel like someone with a future beyond high school. When I was there she let me know when I did things well, and this made me want to do more. When I made mistakes, she was there to fix them and guide me in the right direction. In this year, I was doing what my parents hoped of me. It seems mostly trivial to talk about ninth grade because over the next three I managed to forget what I had learned due to bad teachers and lack of interest on my part. The downward spiral in literacy soon began.

There was really no reason why I should have such negative memories of these academic years. I could have made more of them outside of school, or even worked hard enough in my classes to be placed in advanced ones. The simple fact is that without the motivation I knew from home provided by my teacher I do not perform at a high level. Not only were my grades at a level far lower than what I was capable of, but I also began to look negatively at school. It is obvious that most kids “hate” high school, or at least say they do, and I think this is something that comes with the age. The difference in my case was that my teachers seemed to be right there with me, even fueling my negative feelings. Countless times I heard phrases like, “Is it Friday yet?” or “Do I have to teach today?” One positive influence from a teacher in the next few years could have changed my outlook on my education entirely. Instead of focusing on school, I just tried to have fun.

I have so many memories of the last three years of high school, and most of them do not take place in an educational setting. I had a lot of fun but did not learn what I should have. I can remember goofing around in the library when I could have been reading, roaming the hallways laughing and joking with friends when I should have been in class, and finally, when everything culminated in being awarded the “Worst Case of Senioritis” for our senior class. I was carefree and fun, and this I do not regret. All of the fun I was having should have been mixed with some form of education.

At some point during these three years I should have seriously thought about what my parents were thinking. While they always expressed their opinions, they never wanted to judge my behavior and upset me, so I never really considered the disappointment they must have felt in my slacking off. I stress the words “seriously” and “really” because I know that in the back of my mind I did feel bad about my behavior. I was caught up in the moment. I felt too cool to look back and remember the little boy I was who loved to read books and speak like an adult. Somewhere I should have brought back these things. My English classes were not the venue.

To help illustrate my English classes over the three years, here are a few examples: in tenth grade our teacher took a well-deserved year off to stay at home with her newborn child, so we had a different substitute for each half of the year. The first was a long-time substitute who did not see the value in outside reading, so read To Kill a Mockingbird and Julius Caesar out loud to the class. She was replaced mid-year by a woman who had just graduated from college and had close to no experience with 10^th graders; she swore at the class late in the fourth quarter of the year and was not welcomed back. In eleventh grade my teacher often lost things that he planned on assigning us, most likely because all were handwritten and photocopied, and gave each student fullcredit. In my senior year, and I must preface this is my favorite English class experience, my teacher simply gave me an A+ as a final average because it was the easy thing to do. I never understood this, but why would I complain?

Last semester was my first experience away at college, and I could not have been happier with the change in my instructors’ attitudes toward learning. My introductory writing class gave me the chance to express myself in writing for the first time in college. The response I received for my work was what I had desired for so long: the feeling gained when someone takes an interest in me and respects my work, something that I had not felt from anyone besides my parents and select teachers. The fact that I am not easily motivated when a teacher does not show interest is not a fair excuse for some of my actions, or inactions, in the past, but today I no longer face this problem. Now I am in an environment with professors who work hard to teach their students all that they should be learning. This, along with a newly gained maturity that lets me actually sit back and contemplate what my mom would think, pushes me to work to my potential. My parents’ hopes for me are coming true, even though it took far longer than expected. Literacy in my everyday life is more prevalent than ever, and there is no reason why this could change.