Author: Glass

I was never going to be a teacher. My father was a teacher. I knew at an early age what was involved in being a good teacher. Plus, as already noted, my father was a teacher… July 1^stmarked my retirement from 46 years as an educator: teacher, administrator, consultant. I could not have asked for a better, more fulfilling career.

Our culture does not, as a whole, respect or appreciate teachers as they deserve, and, frankly, that ignorance plays out in ways that too many people never stop to consider. I vividly recall a conversation with an international demographer whom I was to introduce at a major conference. When I wondered aloud what the impact on prison populations might be if all children in the United States (and their parents) had access to early childhood education, the thought had never occurred to him. To his credit, he responded with thoughtful surprise. But this man, who had studied national demographic trends for several decades, had never even considered an educational perspective.

Good teachers impact the lives of thousands of children over time. They make a difference in the ways young people learn to look at others and themselves. They teach children to think and communicate thoughtfully and critically, how to discern news that is fake from that which is real. Good teachers consistently and supportively insist that students be their best selves. They recognize and celebrate the uniqueness of each child and work extremely hard to develop the strengths and interests and ameliorate the weaknesses. Classrooms are microcosms of the societies around them. They should stress personal and group responsibility.

The teachers who create those positive, interactive environments benefit their charges at the moment and far into the future. I am constantly amazed when students I taught long ago share the impact that some experience had on them. Sometimes it was a specific lesson plan. Much more often, their memories center on bigger, ongoing conversations. They recall when a classmate’s father died unexpectedly and how we talked about it as a class, while their own parents didn’t know what to say. Neither did I, frankly, but when kids ask, teachers must respond. Former students refer to simulation exercises during which they were exposed to exclusion and its impact on everyone in the class. They laughingly remember learning how to diagram sentences, wondering how such drudgery (or delight, as some of them experienced it) would ever help them in life – then discovering the huge advantage they had when learning a foreign language or that their English grammar and writing skills were so much more advanced than their peers’ who had no clue about a participial phrase.

My classroom was my work, my playground, my joy, my challenge, my fulfillment. Hundreds of thousands of teachers around the country are assiduously planning for the school year ahead and the children for whom they will deeply care. The most significant way to help them is to give them our trust, support, and gratitude.

We who teach quickly recognize that the greatest lessons in our classrooms frequently originate with our students. The most creative lesson plans can’t hold a candle to the insightful observations of young people.

Schools provide opportunities to form friendships with a wide variety of others. Teachers have never made much money in the United States. It is the wont of those who could use more to share with those who have less. Our combined salary in 1972 was $8,000: $6,000 for my full-time teacher husband and $2,000 for part- time me. We had one daughter and (surprisingly) a mortgage for which we were entirely responsible. Wayne’s four years in the Navy afforded us a VA loan, meaning we did not have to put anything down on a house. The bank said our limit was $20,000. Our first house came in at $19,900 for two bedrooms, living and family rooms, front and back yards.

Our Tucson/GreenFields School teacher friends were in similar boats. We shared potluck dinners, babysitting, and vacations. Our second daughter’s godparents are folks with whom we worked then and remain close now. We were all in our 20’s, worked very hard to keep our heads above water, and were content.

The most difficult thing for me about moving from Arizona to Colorado was leaving those friends. Four years in Denver provided new friends and experiences and a wonderful school family at Colorado Academy. Again, leaving was hard.  we transitioned  to Maryland in 1979, I drove our two daughters (4 and 7 at the time) in our volkswagen camper for four straight days, as Wayne had flown on ahead. The first day I could not stop crying; the second day I wouldn’t let myself; by the time we reached Bethesda, I was just glad to have arrived.

I found myself starting all over at Norwood School, this time teaching 5th grade. My assumption that it would take me awhile to learn to like early middle school was smashed the very first day. Young Bobby Weiman (now a lower school head) shook my hand with surprising firmness, looked me in the eye, and welcomed me to my new school home. The rest of his class were similarly receptive and delightful. When they moved to 6th grade, so did I. And while I have learned invaluable lessons from and enjoyed every class I have taught over the years, it was this particular group of youngsters who taught me the most. I am fortunate to remain in touch with many of them.

At one point in my first year, I mentioned Tucson, and one of the students voiced his understanding that I had come from Denver. Yes, but before that… I could see in the eyes of several of the students, those who had known only one school and home, that this was shocking news. Prepared to explain my background, that need was rendered unnecessary by Mark Knepshield, who thoughtfully observed, “Wow! You must have a lot of friends!” And so I do.

Having envisioned working my way through the nine schools in which I have worked, I find myself, instead, recalling opening days and weeks at a couple of other schools. The start of any school tenure usually portends the experiences to come.

We moved from Tucson to Denver in 1975, then to Bethesda, MD, in 1979. Having taught junior kindergarten and kindergarten for four years, I was looking for a slightly older class. I loved my years with the young ones and learned incredible lessons that have served me ever since, however, I do not have the endless patience and talents that are the hallmarks of early childhood teachers. Those who claim that one is not “intellectual” unless one teaches high school or college could not be more wrong. It takes a particular brilliance to match the quick wits and pace of learning evidenced by small fry. Just because they cannot read yet does not mean that they are not wise. Brains develop at an astonishing rate during the early years. It takes real gifts to match those of PreK and K kiddos. And patience, of which I had a limited amount.

I figured that finding a position somewhere in 1st-3rd would be ideal. I wasn’t interested in returning to high school, and middle school definitely was not appealing. Like many, my experience with middle school students was limited, and the reasons not to work with that age abounded. Or so I thought. Life in schools is full of surprises, and I found myself in a drop in interview with Tom Hudnut at Norwood School in Bethesda, Maryland. As we chatted about this and that, Tom surprised me by offering me a position as a 5th grade teacher. In a strange turn of events, I found myself telling him I was not the person for the job, and Tom kept insisting that I was. I have no idea what he saw in me, but his insight was spot on.

Having accepted the position, I figured that it would take time for me to adjust to working with early adolescents (“transescents,” a term I love and rarely see). Instead, I was hooked on day one, when young Bobby Weiman walked up to me, looked me in the eye, extended a firm handshake and warm smile, and welcomed me to 5th grade. Teachers learn from all of their classes and students, some more than others. The huge blessing of our move from Denver to Bethesda was that particular class, with whom I spent two years, when I moved up to 6th grade with them. They were — and remain — a dream class. More about them later. Bob is now Head of Lower School at St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes.

My plan, as I write in the future, is to include names of folks about whom there is no question that the thoughts are positive and to use first names, only, if I think someone might be offended.

Prior to beginning our first year at Green Fields School, Wayne and I met with the Head of School and two other teachers to plan the traditional first-week outing to Mt. Lemmon. The opening venture always included the entire school (grades 3-12), two or three nights’ camping, and a variety of activities that needed to be scheduled and supervised carefully. Such trips, in any school, are extraordinarily complicated and require multiple levels of support.

In this case, we knew we were going to be joined by a few student leaders, among them a sophomore  named Peter Almquist. From all reports, this fellow was exceptional, and my subconscious, preconceived image of the young knight in question was immediately contradicted when in shambled an unassuming lad with a helmet of very blond hair who sat quietly as we discussed possible plans. We were, after all, in a tiny school. Perhaps comparisons were limited? Was he really so amazing?

He was (and remains) so amazing, as I discovered over the course of the three days when Peter and I sat perched on the edge of a steep rock face and belayed a continuous line of students. One has occasion to discuss a considerable range of topics over the course of three days at the edge of a cliff, and Peter and I got to know each other. While his manner was unassuming, his accomplishments and interests were impressive. Most noteworthy, however, was his selflessness. As the teacher responsible for the culmination of a climbing venture that included all of the students in the school, my task was set. Peter could have elected to hand off his assignment to others. He did not. While we were occasionally assisted by other high school students for an hour or so at a time, all of them ultimately took off. Peter kept me company the entire time and consistently supported his school mates in their efforts. He never appeared tired or bored. His sense of humor and verbal repartee never flagged. Forty-six years later, I can still remember and appreciate his positive presence.

At the end of the third day, I ordered Peter to climb, knowing that he was both practiced and passionate about the sport. I had him on pretty loose belay, respecting his capabilities and the relatively minor challenge of that particular cliff for someone of his caliber. However, just as his face appeared in front of me, the outcropping in his right hand broke free, and he flew backwards with a total look of surprise that undoubtedly mirrored mine.  “See? It’s easy for Mrs. Glass to hold Peter, even though he is much bigger than she is,” loudly observed the teacher waiting with students at the bottom. I never let on that Peter’s fall left a rope burn about 4″ long across my back. No more loose belays!

Educators in the trenches frequently sustain rope burns, literal and metaphysical, from unexpected turns of events. Usually, they say nothing. Over the years I have often wished that parents were a bit more sensitive to the considerable sacrifices good teachers make on behalf of their children every day.

Peter is now a Senior Intelligence Analyst at the Bureau of Intelligence and Research, a branch of the State Department in Washington, DC. He earned his undergraduate degree from Pomona and his PhD from MIT. He lives in Virginia with his wife and two grown sons. Not surprisingly, Wayne and I have kept in fairly close contact with Peter and Marty over the years. Peter is now more than twice the age I was when he and I first got to know each other on Mt. Lemmon in 1972. It will surprise no one who teaches that he continues to exhibit the same strength of character now that he did then.

Many educators would gladly skip right by Back to School Night. Comfortable doing most anything in front of rooms full of students, they are struck uncharacteristically shy when faced with a room full of adults. Each year I ask each one of our “stafulty” to stand, introduce her/himself, and simply share a kind job description: Kindergarten teacher, Middle School Science, Athletic Director, etc. Many confess that those few minutes (seconds?) are the most nerve-wracking of the entire year.

In contrast, I love Back to School Night and always have. I love the opportunity to meet parents, to describe goals for the year, to encourage a partnership between home and school that will best serve our children. As a teacher, I frequently engaged parents in some sort of activity that returned them to a student mentality. We can forget that our middle school years, for instance, were not always perfect. As a Head of School, I believe it is my job to clarify and reinforce the philosophy and mission of our School and to support the work of my staff. Anyone who knows me understands that I am passionate about what I do, about working with students and teachers and parents, about creating educational communities that demonstrate honesty, integrity, and respect.

So it was with a combination of deep pride and surprising internal emotion that I addressed an assemblage of parents for my last Back to School Night as a Head of School this evening. Intending to talk about this and that, my inside voice noted that, hmmm, I was talking about the other thing. It may be that I got a little hot and bothered about  parents behaving badly (though I refrained from using that term). None of us is perfect, is how I believe I said it.

Then I watched my extraordinary stafulty bring it home, as it were. They exemplified our mission and our honor code. They articulated how we differentiate instruction for the range of students we embrace and how we work with every child to help her to develop into her best self; how we take the time to sit down with every student to help him create goals that are attainable with hard work. I smiled when the middle school faculty consistently referred to The Best Year Yet — a phrase my father used at Thacher School that I now know will live on here at Lake Tahoe School. It is very human to wonder what one’s legacy will be. Tonight I feel very good about mine.