Last summer, Katie and I attended a 60-hour, lecture-intensive training course to delineate strategies for teaching children with dyslexia. My sister was nearing the end of her undergraduate program in speech pathology; amid the steep competition for the Master’s programs, Kate was feeling rather apprehensive about the next two years, and thus sought to expand her resume with some teaching classes. Boredom as much as Kate’s pleading suckered me into the class. A year from completing my Masters, I was still jobless and seeking employment among the various private schools and libraries of Maryland.
The class was taught at Kevin’s old middle school, Unity Middle, by a Miss Marsha, who lectured us for six grueling hours each day about techniques to improve multi-sensory learning. Only Marsha seemed to ignore the irony. The rest of us learned to fall asleep with our eyes open.
Nonetheless, our teacher’s intentions were pure enough. When our younger brother was born, he developed an early ear infection that marred much of his speech and learning skills as he grew. At ten, only my brother, Shannon, really understood his garbled questions and took to translating his younger brother for the rest of the family. Several years and schools later, doctors diagnosed him with dyslexia. My parents found Unity Middle, which specialized in teaching learning disabled children, helping Kevin to not only speak better but to read, write, and cope with the challenges of high school.
Too many schools, Marsha explained, teach solely through lecture and readings, but never allow their students to touch, taste, hear or experience the lessons first-hand. For dyslexic children, the inclusion of multiple senses could re-build these missing neuronal pathways. This new philosophy made sense; Katie and I had seen what this (common-sense?) approach had achieved for our brother. But what Katie saw as a godsend for the learning disabled, I foresaw as the future of the teaching industry. After all why couldn’t any child – dyslexic or not – benefit from hands-on, multi-sensory teaching? When did education, the study of the world, become nothing more than homework, lecture, and readings . . . in short a drag?
Still, Marsha chose to relay this information through hour-long lectures and lengthy commentaries concerning the pitfalls of the modern educational system. Moreover, she loved to gossip: politicians, teachers, schools, scientists. She had a gripe with nearly everybody, who undervalued or neglected dyslexic children, and shortly my afternoons had devolved into a three-hour soap opera – minus the evil twin – with another four hours spent reading from notes. Perhaps, being the only guy in the class (my nickname was “The Man”), I felt more agitated than the others, but by day two, the class could not end quickly enough.
By the third day, I began imagining myself in a comic book – my default daydream when I feel my brain dying: heroes in flamboyant costumes crashed through walls, decimating the classroom and freeing its comatose students. One morning, the Hulk lifted Ms. Marsha by her chair and hurled her into the upper stratosphere. Silence reigned for a few precious seconds before my senses recoiled, and I realized that she had only paused to take a drink.
The class proved just as eclectic as our teacher. As mentioned prior, I found myself outnumbered, surrounded by women, nearly all teachers with varying degrees of professionalism. A few such as Liz and Ellen worked full-time as tutors at Unity while others home-schooled. Jess had worked as an intern over the last semester, and surviving her undergrad, sought employment as a literature teacher. Another – whom I shall call ‘Tracy’ – heralded from a private pseudo-religious school downtown, which emphasized positive reinforcement and hugging to boost self-esteem.
As she explained it: “Every Friday, we halt afternoon classes for Praise Circles. All the teachers gather around one child at a time. We join hands, sing songs, and offer compliments, hug and channel our positive thoughts or aura toward the child. Every student gets a turn, a chance to feel loved, and I’ve felt a lot of the bad energy, the negative self-destructive feelings from some of our more undisciplined children disappear entirely.”
Honestly, forced ritualistic hugging and singing alone recalled images of cult-like communes; channeling cosmic juju only reinforced my conviction that the woman and her school were totally nuts. I kept waiting for the punch line, while my sister warred with her need to giggle.
Katie, meanwhile, felt determined to find my soul mate. Little sisters all play matchmaker at some point in their lives, and Katie felt certain that the future Mrs. Murph lie in wait somewhere in the classroom.
- “Oh so you like to read, huh? You hear that Murph? She likes books too!”
- “You like Jurassic Park? Murph used to obsess over dinosaurs. When we were little, he’d stomp around the house, growling and roaring like uh . . . a T. Rex. He even tucked away all his fingers but two on each hand . . .”
These excursions into the desperation of my love life, however, procured me my first teaching job. At least in part. Katie divulged the story of our lives quickly, prompting discussions of my past work with malaria and the National Institutes of Health (NIH).
At the start of the second week, Ms. Liz – the head of tutoring at Unity – and Ms. Marsha relayed to Dr. T, Unity Middle’s principal, that I was a former biochem major looking for a teaching position and that I tutored my siblings, many of whom were diagnosed as dyslexics. This of course procured me an interview, where I learned that the school’s current science teacher would shortly be transferred to a position in the administration offices. The school would hire me as a full-time employee, teaching science, social studies, and a course known as study skills.
Now, I readily accepted science and social studies – high school and college had planted a provincial but persistent devotion to histories of all kinds, non-fictional and fictional alike – however, I had some modest concerns about these study skills classes. These, more so than either science or history, seemed the most essential to all future academic development. Perhaps I had over-analyzed the situation, worrying myself for no good reason, but the task at the time appeared overwhelming.
Afterwards, I was allowed to give the matter some thought and return with a reply later the next morning. That night between my mother and younger sister’s reaction, you would have thought I had drowned a kitten:
- “ . . . in all my years, Murph, I have never found reason to be disappointed in you. Never. Until this night . . .”
- “. . . Murph, in this economy, you can’t afford to be picky or honest. If they want you to teach heart surgery to ten-year-olds, then you say ‘Okay! Where can I plug in my saw?’ . . .”
- “ . . . Study skills is teaching ten-year-olds how to take notes and tests. You have a chemistry degree and a Masters in libraries and organizing stuff. Hon, I think you’re more than qualified to show eighth grades how to highlight textbooks . . .”
Once again I believe my family had mistaken genuine concern for fear or cowardice, anxiety over my first job in years. Honestly, that was not the case. Imagine completing your first course in human anatomy and then being asked to perform open heart surgery. It’s like that.
Marsha frequently reminded us that good-intentions among kind-hearted but ignorant teachers often instilled more harm than good. Was it enough to simply practice copying notes from a chalkboard or should there be some multisensory component to it all? Should we begin our classes sniffing highlighters and chewing Staples’ best three-line rule? Mentioning these minor concerns to my future employer somehow seemed pertinent.
Still after much consideration and even greater parental pressure, I arrived to class the following morning ready and willing to teach science, history, study skills and . . . yes even heart surgery if anyone should ask. If any other questions or concerns came to mind, Mom suggested that I should ‘suck it up’ until after my first paycheck.
The school seemed eager to hire another male teacher, which I understand is something of a rarity in middle school education. Most of the student population was predominately male so Dr. T and the other teachers believed another male role model would compliment the school perfectly. Being the least ‘athletic’ of my siblings, I had my doubts, and prayed a few of the kids enjoyed video games, Batman, and Lego sets (little did I know then!).
Melissa the former science/social studies teacher dumped three large binders, full of lesson plans, into my arms and showed me to my classrooms. Melissa reminded me a lot of my sister-in-law, Tiffany: stern, organized, but very kind with a blunt sarcastic humor. I liked her instantly. After giving me the grand tour of classrooms and lab, Melissa informed me that study skills was actually incorporated into science and social studies class, thus double periods for middle school students, a full hour and a half for eighth, seventh and sixth graders each day.
“I suggest you start with science the first half of the year. The boys usually enjoy the experiments a lot, and as a new teacher, you can accrue some respect before diving into history. That’s when it gets hard as you’ll have to figure out what to do in place of the experiments. If you get stuck, crafts and videos have worked well in the past to fill in the time. Otherwise, that’s about it, any questions?” she asked.
I shook my head, unsure whether my eyes revealed any cowardice or uncertainty. Of course, my mind rattled with questions, but no one could really help me with that. I needed to stand before a room full of children and figure it all out. Frankly, I felt terrified with the responsibilities so casually tossed my way. I should mention that half the time, my siblings openly admit to ignoring 90% of what I attempted to tutor them. I desperately craved an iced tea and long afternoon at the bookstore.
Still I can’t say that I wasn’t a little excited as well. Experiments and projects began bubbling in my head. I would have a chance, an opportunity to really astound and amaze these kids, to show them some honest-to-goodness magic. And I would need every one if I was going to keep three classes of eight hyperactive pre-teens occupied for an hour and a half.
School began the following week: September 7th 2011.
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