I never had a teacher worth remembering until my junior year of high school. In fact, that year there were two of them.
My history teacher had us build trenches out of desks and try to imagine the day-to-day existence of World War I soldiers living and fighting down in the trenches. He taped our hands and feet to the floor and read passages to us, trying to drive home the wretched conditions aboard a slave ship. If he didn’t agree with something in our textbook, then he had us strike it out in pen.
He was the first teacher I ever had who was passionate about his subject and bent on transmitting to his students his fervor for learning and understanding the world. I’ve always liked history, but even those students who hated the subject were powerless against his enthusiasm. And then he made us see that history was about people like him and me, but in different circumstances; that history actually belonged to everyone.
My photography teacher, on the other hand, was a more muted personality, but only at first glance. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak he often barked commands or playful jabs at the students at unexpected moments; most responses to him were looks of plain surprise or confusion. He was shorter than most of the students, but he was as much respected as he was feared.
He was able to do something that most teachers wouldn’t or couldn’t do. He helped his students – me included – cultivate their creativity and find their own voice. Despite his own brusque manner, students found a mentor for their artistic experiments and an adult ally on campus who wouldn’t judge us harshly when it mattered most.
It’s funny how over the years I’ve forgotten about the bad teachers, but I still remember the good ones.
