My first class
I yearn for the time to truly nurture each child, to challenge them according to their unique learning styles and needs.
The weight of teacher guilt is hauntingly real.
Perhaps everyone shares the feeling of having failed their first class; teacher guilt appears universal, akin to the familiar mum guilt. Yet, time can be the remedy for the chaos of contemporary teaching, the logistical frenzy, and the vacuum of support. Teachers and nurses have both cried out for help, echoing their pleas for change, and yet the system remains unmoved. Our children deserve better than overburdened, stressed, and overwhelmed adults. They deserve role models with room to breathe, to contemplate and dissect the intricate challenges of the classroom.
The role of a teacher, especially to a group of 30 or more, is a role one can't fully fathom until experienced. I don't intend to diminish the significance of the parent's role, but when I teach, I become a surrogate parent, much like every primary school teacher. I learn their hunger, fatigue, and sadness, often before they acknowledge it. Their tantrums became a language I understood, akin to a parent deciphering their child's needs.
My second year of teaching coincided with the eruption of covid lockdowns. It was during this year that I conceived my daughter and ultimately decided to abandon our life and flee the draconian mess of Sydney. This was also the year I started with THE grade, the notorious class that brought chaos from day one of kindergarten.
These were the kids often discussed in the staffroom. I can still recall the unkind remarks we exchanged, about the students, their parents… everything. It's a pity, we were all utterly drained, far from our best selves.
Amidst the tumultuous currents of education, teachers shine as precious gems. They bear the weight of heavy workloads and stress, yet they show up each day with smiles and love. In every school, there exists that one remarkable teacher, the embodiment of 'Miss Honey' from Matilda. These teachers dedicated themselves not only to academics but also to the emotional well-being of their students. They were easily distinguishable, as students would fondly reminisce about them years down the line—expressing their enduring love and gratitude. These teachers bestowed upon their students a gift beyond textbooks, a gift of genuine care and unwavering respect.
I like to believe that given five years to adjust to the profession, I could have become that teacher, a beacon of emotional support and academic guidance. However, life had a different course for me.
Reflecting, I realise I didn't fail my students. I grappled with teaching specifics and keeping the young rascals engaged, but perhaps I gave them something more profound than spelling or equations. I gave them space—space to be unapologetically themselves, to express their frustration and ire, space to confide in me. I endeavoured to be their ally, advocating for them when needed, looking beyond their misdemeanours. The struggles they faced often emanated from the flaws within the education system, not their character.
I saw potential in each of them, even the perceived outliers. In the end, I genuinely cherished them, finding their humour and presence a delight. Just as I offered them space, they extended the same to me—a novice teacher with quirks aplenty, always trying my best.
It's an intricate dance between teaching and personal limitations. Theory propounds ten-student classrooms, yet reality remains complex. And amidst this, the desire to transform education, to craft a space where students flourish without burden, continues to burn within.
