I have often made the point about how unhappy teachers are.
I could think of no group who better typified this unrest and disconcerted state than the other teachers I suffered with, and suffered through, at Ivy League School.
One was an effete, prissy multicultural elitist, a North Carolina boy with more swish than accent.
He loved to lecture to me about Indians, which correcting me by calling them "Native Americans." When I told him that I was part Indian, er . .. "Native American." I called myself a member of the "Huron" tribe", which he would then correct me again, "Tribe is a European construct. You mean "nation". . ."
He was as pretentious in his political correctness as the day is long; he was a real downer, a real creep, arrogant in his weakened simplicity, and very popular with the kids since he let them get away with a lot without really accomplishing anything (or at least that's what is seemed to me)
When he wasn't boasting about his Native American heritage, he whined at length about his sad circumstances, of which there were many. He lived in a death trap of an apartment, which had doubled as his office. When mold creeped into the room, causing him terrible health problems, his landlord refused to do anything about it. In response to the blunt spurning for assistance, he filed a lawsuit, which he was still pursuing for the duration of my ill-extended stay at Ivy.
In addition to the hellish hole he lived in, he had suffered in a terrible automobile accident, one which apparently was not his fault. He still death with headaches and weak moments. It was just plain depressing hearing from this guy. When he came by to talk, I kept everything to a minimum; I had no interest in adding to my own misery.
He was a nice guy, one that wanted you to appreciate his same niceness.
There was another teacher, more crusty, more beaten down, more worn out. She had been a full-time teacher, but after ten years she quit. She got so burned out over the whole thing.
"My garage is still filled with crap from teaching elementary school," from which she offered to offload some of it on me. I politely turned her down.
She would back-bite the Asian employers who ran Ivy, as well, commenting on the absurd programs they were running, like trying to make first and second graders write cohesive essay, when they were just starting to read and write.
She talked a lot about money, talked a lot about getting out of the teaching profession. She wanted to work with people, and she was training to become a radiologist, a profession that required minimal contact with other people. She figured this out about a year into her training, and thus resolved to pursue another calling.
She was full of herself, a mixed legacy of disappoint and fear, all born of pursuing a profession as the one answer to the ache of living a life with some purpose.
Plus the economic downturn which roiled opportunities for us all. We did not have much to look forward to, it seems. When I ran into her at the local library, she was wearing a baby-tee with one of those gaudy lucky cats that look eerily over costumers in donut shops. I noticed the freaky feline on her shirt, which she corrected me was a "Japanese" not a "Chinese" symbol (in reality, meaningless monstrosity).
"I wear this to attract money. Money!" Then she grabbed at the air, grasping for the wind, exasperated my already thinning patience.
While at Ivy, I was also offended by the things that I discovered through other students what she would say about me to them — like that I was a bad teacher (then again, this was one word from some frustrated fifth grade forced to spend three more hours a day in run-down dump of a school. Still, I did not care for her, and I did not care to be talked about, either.
There was another teacher, one whom I esteemed for his humility and simplicity, although he was a credentialed and degreed individual, one who worked at a local community college during the day as an English teacher.
He liked working with younger kids, although he despised the methods he was forced to adopt in teaching. "Drill and kill doesn't work, but the counselor insists on it," he lamented. Why was he teaching there, then? Wasn't he getting compensated enough working at the community college?
I almost forgot the retired computer engineer, an unmarried man who was appalled as I was with the students' miscreance and misconduct toward each other. He was a kind man, one who brought the students gifts on their birthdays. After working for twenty-odd years with computers, he wanted to take on another career, this time working with young people. He was keen on pre-school, but he was glad for the opportunity to teach anybody. He liked working there, despite the crude conditions that would have appalled any full-time teacher. He was upbeat, and I liked that. It was good that there was somebody there who was to be happy to be there. At least it seemed that way