Confessions of a Shit Teacher

Shite teachers have the hardest job on earth.

There’s never any sympathy for bad teachers. All the understanding goes the way of the children whose dreams they are slowly dimming. 

Let me tell you, there’s no pain quite like floundering above a room of flat faces. Throwing everything into an explanation that, for all your phoney, caffeinated enthusiasm, doesn’t actually make sense.

The basic principle of teaching is knowing more than the students - and, I didn’t. In the absence of knowledge, the key is maintaining the illusion of knowing more than the students - and, I didn’t do that either. 

My subject wasn’t advanced astronomy, pondering the mysteries of a cosmos eternally unknown. I was teaching English: my first language; to people learning English: their second language. Somehow, my pupils always had the upper hand.

Once, I was teaching a class of refund-considering students, and myself, some grammar point. Turning away from the board, satisfied, I found a man of my father’s age biting his own forearm in frustration.

OK guys, good, good, good so if I had explained it properly, Pablo wouldn’t have bit his arm. And that’s the 2nd conditional, ok, guys?

No, that’s third conditional, Señor Sam.

So it is. Very good. Very good, Esteban. Just testing. 

Two-way communication and gentle corrections are the foundation of good teaching. Among my other stand-out clangers was misteaching the most basic elements of the English language. Yep, I botched my ABCs before a huddle of incredulous Spanish toddlers.

In my defence, I squeaked the vast majority of the 26 letters onto the blackboard, without incident. Now, granted, the arrangement of the letters was not as strictly alphabetised as it might have been. There was a light omission, somewhere towards the tail end there, after the elemeno P - where I’ve always been less strong. 

Señor Sam, where is V?

V.V,V,V. - where-uh… is-a, Vvv…… yes! Vvvvery good, Mateo, is it? Just testing you. That’s why V is Vvvvvery important. Now!

In my further defence, V’s a pretty forgettable character. A half-desirable scrabble tile and nothing more. Also, as the alphabet is the very first thing we learn, I could not have learned it longer ago. Anyway, the ordering of the letters is arbitrary. I’m a fucking writer, I know them all. P - L? W, yet, then again, K, to name but a few. 

No matter how challenging the question - like, what’s the word for that material roof thing outside the front of a shop - a teacher is never allowed to admit they can’t remember. My Hail Mary response was straight-up denying such a word exists in English. Like how the French don’t have a word for sandwiches. But that shamefaced claim only works the once. 

Sam, it's the awning, no?

No, absolutely not, Mateo. Any more questions? No. Great.

With a hungover mind and an overhung body, any good-natured curiosity would make sweat spill from my face. Despite my lousy teachings, I was still liked well enough. So the students couldn’t bear me squirming under the weight of a simple question. We had an understanding - no questions asked. 

One inquisitive student joined the class - just a massive asker. My regulars soon explained, in this place of learning, that kind of behaviour was not tolerated. 

Next time a teacher is clutching at imaginary straws up there, take it easy. Being a teacher is hard enough when you’re good at it, I’m told. The useless educators truly have the hardest job in the world. Shit teachers are the backbone of society - without them, we would hardly have any teachers at all.